


Elegy (the space between our hearts)

by Apsacta



Series: Coloratura [2]
Category: Twosetviolin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, I swear, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, More than a little bit of pain, a little bit of pain, but it does get better, mentions of violence and blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23304034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apsacta/pseuds/Apsacta
Summary: --- I wanna take you somewhere so you know I care ------ But it’s so cold and I don’t know where ---Eddy’s been on the cusp of reaching for Brett’s hand so many times.Sometimes he thinks that if he could just intertwine their fingers, feel the steadying press of Brett’s palm against his, then everything would be alright, the weight on his chest would lift and he’d finally be able to breathe.But then he thinks: what if he’s a drowning man, and what if he’d just be dragging Brett down to the bottom with him?So he keeps his own hands safely clenched into fists and watches Brett’s fingers dance on the fingerboard. Some things are better left untouched.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Series: Coloratura [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1675777
Comments: 95
Kudos: 217





	1. Prelude (Dvořák – Humoresque op. 101 n°7)

**Author's Note:**

> (Jules Massenet – Élégie op. 10 n°5 for piano and cello)

“Mum?”

They are walking home from school and Eddy’s skipping along the footpath, careful to avoid the shadows and the lines in the cement. The sun is burning hot on the back of his neck and his tiny fingers feel warm, curled against the palm of his mother’s hand. He’s been singing quietly to himself, in rhythm with the beat of their footsteps, while his sister chatters away, recounting her adventures of the day. But all her stories bring a question to his mind. He tries to hold it in and focus on the song in his head, but it only grows more pressing. So he asks.

“Mum?”

“Hmm?” His mother gazes down. Her eyes are soft and she smiles at him. With her free hand, she brushes dark hair out of his eyes. “What’s the matter, sunshine?”

Eddy bites his lips and hesitates. “Is it bad that I don’t have any friends at school?”

Next to him, his sister’s chuckle rings like tiny bells. “It’s because you’re a loser,” she states matter-of-factly. It’s easy for her to say. She’s got loads of friends.

“Apologise to your brother,” Eddy’s mum says as she glares at his sister. “Now!” Then she turns to him, and her face softens. She caresses the side of his face with a gentle hand. “Sometimes making friends takes time, baby,” she says. “It doesn’t always happen immediately”.

Eddy nods thoughtfully. Making friends takes time. He understands it. He just hopes that it doesn’t take too much time. He does feel just a little bit lonely. But then they get home and he forgets about it as he helps his mother cook dinner for the family. They eat rice together and his father tells them stories about lands so far away, and Eddy listens with eyes wide in awe and wonder.

As he gets ready for bed that evening, there’s a knock on his bedroom door. Before he has time to say anything, it creaks open and his sister’s stepping in. She’s got her cd-player in one hand, and a bunch of CDs in the other. Eddy glares at her, but she speaks before he can say anything.

“I’m sorry I called you a loser,” she says. She plugs in the CD-player, and hands Eddy the CDs. “You’re not a loser.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods, and Eddy sits on his bed and looks at the CDs. “Can I choose one?” he asks, and his sister nods again. He likes the blue one. There’s a huge wave on the front, and it’s kind of cool.

“Debussy, la mer,” his sister says, and Eddy doesn’t understand what it means.

But then the music starts, and Eddy’s eyes widen. He takes the CD case in his hands and looks at it, fingers tracing the lines in the water. “It’s so cool,” he says in awe, and his sister smiles as she ruffles his hair.

“If you like it, you can keep it,” she says, and they lie down in silence to listen.

“You’re sure I’m not a loser?” Eddy asks as the music softens.

“Of course.”

“How? How do you know?”

“Cause you’re my brother,” she answer as if it’s evident, and then she tickles him until he’s crying from laughter and begging for her to stop.

The next morning Eddy’s called into the kitchen. His mother is preparing breakfast, and his father is sitting at the table with a newspaper and a coffee.

“We’ve been thinking -” Eddy’s mother begins.

“-how about you start learning the violin?” His father continues, looking at him over the newspaper.

Eddy bits his lips and thinks about the CD that’s hidden under his pillow, like a treasure.

“Yes,” he says, thoughtfully. “Yes, I think I’d like that.”

* * *

**_Hello reader. Thank you for your time. I hope you’re doing well and taking care of yourself in these strange times._ **

**_[Here’s a piece to listen to if you’re bored.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_XalaPaAbLg) _ **

**_[And another one.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZnzjzjYkK0) _ **

**_[And a song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MwpMEbgC7DA) _ **


	2. Deep Breath (Brahms - Double Concerto in A minor, op. 102)

Sometimes, Eddy thinks that his violin teacher is a little insane. It’s not that he’s unnecessarily mean – although it would be an overstatement to say that he’s ever been nice. But there’s just that glint in his eyes sometimes…

“Eddy!” he shouts, so suddenly that Eddy jumps up in surprise and that his heart misses several beats. “Bow arm! What did I say about the bow arm?”

Eddy looks up at the man towering above him. He’s got the clearest eyes Eddy’s ever seen, and there’s that glint in them, that little flicker. Eddy racks his brains and tries hard to remember what exactly Mr. Konstantin’s said about bows arms. His lips open in a perfect O shape as he tries to come up with something. Anything. But his mind is just blank.

“Higher elbow?” he says tentatively.

He can see in his teacher’s eyes that it’s the wrong answer.

“Lower elbow?”

Wrong answer again.

The teacher uses his own bow to poke at Eddy’s arm. “Relax it,” he says, his voice low and slow, with harsh r’s rolling down his the tip of his tongue. “You’re playing music. You’re not sawing down a tree.”

“Relax it,” Eddy repeats, nodding, trying his best to apply the advice to his playing. It’s a total failure.

“Why are you so tense!” his teacher exclaims, throwing his bow arm in the air. “Why?”

Like it’s so easy to relax. Eddy’s been playing the same five bars on repeat during the last half hour, and there’s always something wrong with it.

“I’ve been telling you the same thing for five years. Play the music, not the violin. I know you can do it, so why don’t you?”

It’s a good question, and Eddy would love to answer, if only he understood what was expected of him. Last lesson, he was told that he was progressing fast and that he would get to learn a new piece if he practiced this one enough. And now there’s nothing right with his playing, and he’s supposed to not play the violin but play the music. And he just doesn’t get it. He _doesn’t_ get it. He’d like to ask if there isn’t something lost in translation here, but there’s that light in his teacher’s eye again.

“Why are you looking scared now?” the teacher says, running a hand through pale blonde hair streaked with grey. “When I was your age,” he begins, and Eddy already knows what’s going to follow. He’s heard it before. “My teacher in music school used to hit my head with a ruler if I played a wrong note. Have I ever hit you on the head?”

Eddy shakes his head. No. He’s never been hit on the head with a ruler before because he played a wrong note. But he’s been shouted at plenty, because apparently, he plays the violin and not the music. Whatever that means.

“Then why are you looking at me like I’m about to hit you?”

Eddy tenses his shoulders. “I just don’t understand, sir,” he says. He feels tears beginning to pool, and tries his best not to let them fall. He’s _not_ going to cry here. Absolutely not. “I haven’t played a single wrong note.” His voice strains. “Not one wrong note, sir. I don’t understand.”

The little flicker disappears from his teacher’s eyes, but his face doesn’t soften. “You’ve played all the right notes, sure,” he says, “but you haven’t played the notes right. Listen.”

He takes his own violin from the table, and lifts it to his shoulder. Eddy relaxes a little. These are always his favourite moments from the lessons. Soon, the music fills the rooms, little notes dancing around them, all light and clear.

“Do you hear it?”

Eddy nods, even if he’s not sure what he’s supposed to hear. Yes, it does sound a lot better than what he’s just played. He doesn’t really understand why, though.

“Listen to the phrases, not the notes,” his teachers says. He lifts his bow to the strings again. Eddy closes his eyes, hoping that it’ll help him see… whatever he’s supposed to see.

“We both know you can play the right notes, Eddy. Now you have to add to it, if you want to get to the next level. It’s there. I can hear it when you forget that I’m listening. But you have to intentionally get it out. Do you understand?”

“I think I do,” Eddy mumbles, and for the first time it’s true. He kind of gets what the teacher wants. He’s heard it in recordings, and he knows it when he hears it. It’s in the way good music, _really good music_ , just sweeps him over and makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It’s in the way some pieces make him feel really happy, and others so, so sad. He knows what he’s supposed to do. He doesn’t quite know how to do it.

“Good. Your turn now. Play. Come on. Davai – ”

* * *

_“_ Please, stop! Please, mercy, please” Eddy giggles as his sister’s fingers dance across his ribs. He’s laughing so much it’s hard to breathe.

“Nah. Admit that you’ve been stealing all my CDs.”

“No, it wasn’t me, I swear!” he gasps and pants.

“Oh yeah? Where’s the Bach recording then?” His sister asks, relentless.

“I don’t know. I don’t know, I swear. I don’t have it. Mum! Mum! Please, help!”

In the other room, their mother just laughs.

* * *

Sometimes, Eddy likes to arrive early before his music class. While he waits, he climbs up the fire escape and goes up to the roof where he sits down, legs dangling over the ledge. There, he listens to the music that comes out of the open window.

There’s a boy who has his lesson just before Eddy’s, and Eddy likes to listen as he plays. He likes to imagine that they could be friends, maybe. None of Eddy’s friends really care about music. He’d really like to have at least one friend he could share his love of music with. Someone with whom he could talk about how difficult it is to have a vibrato that doesn’t sound limp, someone who would understand what it feels like to get to the end of piece and not make a single mistake. 

For the longest time, all that Eddy knew about the boy was fast bow movements and neat, precise notes. He recognised his playing, although he wouldn’t have recognised his face. For the longest time, he didn’t even know his name.

That’s all changed now, though. Now Eddy can put a face to the playing. And a name.

Brett.

Today, Eddy’s met Brett for the first time, and he so, so wishes they could be friends. The other student seemed so kind and nice.

Eddy doubts they can ever be friends, though. Not after he’s made a complete fool of himself. At the thought of it, he feels his cheeks start to burn. Oh, how he wishes to hide his face in his hands as he recalls the encounter. How could Brett ever want to be his friend, after Eddy’s behaved like such a weirdo? Not only did he literally run into Brett, but he almost made him fall to the ground, too. If only he’d paid more attention. But he was running, trying to not be late, completely oblivious to everything around him.

And then, after Brett kindly helped him off the ground, Eddy had to ramble like an idiot. He doesn’t remember exactly what he said, but he couldn’t stop talking. What a dumbass…

“Eddy!”

Hearing the teacher call his name snaps Eddy out of his thoughts.

“I think that’s enough tuning now, right?”

“Oh. Yes. Sorry, sir.”

What a shame… What did he say again? Oh yeah… _I’ll ask our teacher if we can play together some day…_ As if. He wouldn’t even dare. Not after what happened. He’d only embarrass himself more.

“Why don’t you show me what you’ve practiced this week?”

Eddy nods, tries to focus on what he’s practiced. He wants to do a good job, show his teacher that he’s serious about music. But his mind keeps coming back to what just happened, and it’s so hard to concentrate on the notes. He keeps replaying it in his mind – the way he ran head first into Brett, his soft ‘ouch’, his violin case on the ground, Brett's reassuring smile, Eddy’s rant about playing together, – and he’s so embarrassed about the whole thing. So he keeps thinking about it. And he keeps getting distracted. And his teacher keeps on correcting him, again and again, until he gives up with an exasperated sigh.

“Stop Eddy, stop it. It’s obviously not working today!”

Eddy bites his lip. The teacher’s that close to pulling his hair out, and the crazy little flicker’s back in his eyes. Eddy tries to apologise, but he’s cut short by a raised finger.

“The hell’s going on now? You’re obviously not concentrating.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddy mumbles, “it’s just that…”

He’s cut short again. “No, no _it’s-just-that-s_. You’re a musician. You need to separate whatever’s happening to you from your playing.”

“I’m trying.”

“Obviously not hard enough.”

Eddy feels his lower lip tremble. He knows his teacher’s doing what’s best for him. But sometimes it’s just so damn hard. If only he had someone he could share this with.

“Alright,” Konstantin says, sinking down on a chair. “Let’s take a break. Five minutes.”

Eddy nods and carefully places his violin on the table. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt, looks around the apartment. His eyes linger on the piano against the wall, on the dusty cabinet with old trophies,… It’s kind of awkward. He doesn’t think the break is helping him. Like at all.

His teacher shakes his head. “Fine,” he grunts. “Is everything alright at school?”

Eddy nods. This is even more awkward. He thinks he prefers being yelled at because he’s not in tune than having to endure small talk with his teacher. It’s so obvious they’re both failing at it.

“Everything alright at home?”

Eddy nods again. This is so, so weird. Maybe they should just resume the lesson.

“What is it then?”

Eddy shrugs his shoulders. How’s he supposed to explain that he’s embarrassed himself in front of his friend, who’s not his friend yet, but could have been, if Eddy hadn’t acted like such a dummy?

“I don’t know…” he begins. “Do you…” he hesitates, “do you think I could learn a duet someday? Like, play with another student?”

Konstantin hesitates. Takes time to consider it. “Why not,” he says eventually, and Eddy’s heart swells. Maybe… maybe… but then his hope’s crushed. “Not yet though. You’re not ready now. You need more practice.”

* * *

"Why are you always doing your homework at the kitchen table, son?” his mother asks. She runs her fingers through his hair, trying to tame it. 

Eddy shrugs. “I like it here,” he just says. “That way I can talk to you at the same time.”

“Tsk. You should study, not talk. At your desk. In your bedroom.” She shakes her head as she speaks.

“I’d rather be with you and tell you about my day.”

“School’s more important. You can tell me about your day later.”

“Urgh. I hate school. I hate studying.” He sighs exaggeratedly. It’s only half true. He likes learning, it’s just that he doesn’t feel like they ever learn anything interesting.

“That’s just laziness, son. Look at your sister. She’s doing so well in school. Follow her example.”

“I’m doing my best.”

“You could do better, Eddy. You’re too lazy sometimes. Now go. Study until dinner.”

* * *

The first time Eddy gets the sheet music for the duet, he doesn’t realize how important it’ll be. He’s been asking for a duet for about a year now, and he figures that his teacher has finally given in. He gets to play first violin. His teacher plays second. It’s fine. It’s fun to play something that’s a bit different. It’s not what he’s wanted though. It’s not like playing with a friend.

So when his teacher tells him to practice his part for the next lesson, he does. But he’s not enthusiastic about it. They’ll play the duet during the lesson, and yeah, fine, whatever. So he doesn’t hurry to get to his lesson that day. He’s had a ton of homework to finish before, and his parents have been on his case a lot lately, so he tries to please them.

When he gets to his teacher’s apartment for the lesson, he hears two voices inside. It’s kind of weird, because he’s already late, and the other boy should already be gone. Eddy knocks, hesitant. Maybe he got the wrong time for the lesson?

“At last,” is his greeting when he gets in. “We’ve been waiting for you for the past ten minutes.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I was – ” Eddy stops when he sees who is standing next to the piano. It’s Brett! Brett with the nice smile and the clear and fast bow movements.

“Some parents are putting together a recital at the end of the year,” Konstantin says, sounding particularly exasperated about it. “They want proof that I’m actually teaching you something, I suppose. Whatever. We need a duet. I’ve decided to pair the two of you. Eddy’s already learned the first violin part…”

Eddy barely hears what he’s saying. His eyes twinkle and he shoots Brett a bright smile. “Hey!” he says, sauntering towards the older student. “I’m Eddy. We haven’t seen each other in a long time, but I’ve heard you play the other week. You know that piece you’ve been learning? I’m starting it next month…” he stops when he realises that the smile that Brett’s shooting back is a lot colder than his. Just a polite stretch of the lips, and a little nod of the head. Eddy’s smile falters a bit. He doesn’t know whether to continue speaking or not. Luckily, he’s spared the embarrassment by their teacher.

“Yeah, sure, introductions, whatever. Brett, this is Eddy. Eddy, this is Brett. Now let’s get going. We’ve already lost ten minutes. Someone was late…”

Eddy blushes furiously, and tries to concentrate only on the music. He’s learned the piece, and Brett’s a good musician. They should be fine.

They’re shit. When they take a break after twenty minutes, the only thought in Eddy’s mind is that they’re so utterly shit at this. He doesn’t know what to say. How is it so hard to be in sync? How is it so hard to be in tune? He glances at Brett, and sees the same expression on his face.

“Dude,” Brett whispers, shaking his head. “We’re awful.”

Eddy nods. They are. They truly are, and Eddy feels so bad about it.

“I’ve heard violists play better,” Brett says with a small smile.

Before Eddy knows it, he’s giggling, and next to him, Brett seems quite pleased with himself. Eddy racks his brain for something to say that Brett would find funny too.

“Enough talking,” the teacher says before Eddy has the time to speak. “We’ve got quite a lot of work to do.”

When the lesson ends, Eddy feels a little better. They’re still shit. But at least now they’re shit together, and not separately. It’s not much, but it’s progress, right?

As he gets down the stairs, Brett catches up to him. “Eddy! Wait”. He’s slightly out of breath, his glasses a little askew, but he’s smiling. “I just wanted to say that this was nice, you know,” Brett says gently. “You play really well.”

Eddy knows that’s not exactly true. He’s played terribly during the lesson. But it’s so nice to hear Brett say it that he just nods and murmurs a shy “thank you. You play really well too.”

They walk down the street together, talking about every mistake they’ve made during the lesson and laughing at their teacher’s reactions. Now that Eddy feels more comfortable, he doesn’t feel the need to talk as much. In fact, it’s Brett who does most of the talking. He’s funny and clever, and every time he manages to make Eddy laugh, the corner of his lips lifts into a pleased little smile.

“I’ve got to wait here,” Brett says when they reach the corner.

Eddy nods. “I’m going this way. My mum’s gonna kill me if I’m late. School and all, you know. My parents are kind of…”

Brett nods knowingly. “Asian? Same, bro, same. Go before you get in trouble.”

Eddy waves awkwardly, but there’s a new bounce in his step as he hurries off.

“Hey, Eddy!” Brett calls out as Eddy gets to the end of the street. “I’ll see you next week, right?”

* * *

“Eddy?”

“…”

“Hey, Eddy!”

“Hmm… What’s going on, sis?”

“You’re doing it again.”

Eddy lifts his head reluctantly and looks at his sister. “Doing what again?”

“Doing this again.” She lightly taps her fingers against the wood of the table. “It’s kind of disturbing me,” she adds. “I’m trying to study.”

Eddy looks at his fingers and it’s true. He’s been tapping them against the table in rhythm with the piece playing in his head.

“Sorry,” he says. “There’s this piece I’m trying to memorize, and it goes like this…” He taps his fingers in rhythm again and hums the notes lightly. He’s kind of stuck midway through the piece, and it’s frustrating him. He looks at his sister again. She’s hunched over her book, nervously twirling a pen between her fingers. She’s been working so hard lately. “I’ll try not to do it again,” he promises.

“You really do love music very much, don’t you?” There’s a soft smile on his sister’s face.

Eddy nods. Yeah, he does.

* * *

“This is sooo good,” Eddy says as he takes a sip of his Bubble tea. They’re in a small café that serves all kinds of tea flavours, both hot and cold. It’s the second time Brett’s brought him here, and Eddy absolutely loves it. They’re sitting in a quiet corner, next to a window overlooking the street, and they can talk about music all they want. It’s heaven.

“I know, right?” Brett’s leaning with his chair against the wall with his eyes closed and an expression of pure bliss on his face. “And it’s such a relief, after being shouted at for thirty minutes. Like, we’re not as bad as he says, right? I…” there’s a shyness to his voice, something that Eddy’s not used to hearing. “… I really loved how you played the first movement. I thought it was pretty good.” Brett shrugs his shoulders, opens his eyes and looks at Eddy. “Sometimes I just don’t understand what he wants, you know?”

“Brett!” Eddy says, mimicking their teacher’s accent. “You call that a vibrato? How is that a vibrato? Do you hear a vibration? There’s no vibration. No vibration, no vibrato. There’s nothing. It’s a dead worm, that’s what it is! And it’s out of tune. A dead worm out of tune!”

Brett snorts, and bubble tea comes out of his nose, splattering across the table.

“Dude, gross!” Eddy exclaims, but Brett just laughs and laughs, and Eddy feels a warmth in his chest.

It’s so easy to be friends with Brett. There’s never an awkward moment, he can talk about music all he wants, and Brett’s never telling him to shup up because no one cares about his stupid classical music. Brett listens like he really cares about what Eddy has to say.

No. There’s more. Brett understands. He understands how music is so very important to Eddy. He understands what it’s like to come out of a lesson feeling like shit because you don’t understand what your teacher wants. He understands what it’s like to grow up in a family that puts so much pressure on you to succeed in everything you do.

“Eddy,” Brett says, and it’s his turn to try and mimic their teacher. “Look at the sheet music. What’s written there? Nothing uh? Not accelerando, no. Then why are you rushing? Stop rushing? Why?”

“I’m not rushing, sir,” Eddy retorts, pretending to answer their teacher. “It’s Brett, sir. He’s dragging.”

“Hey!” Brett protests, but Eddy’s laughing, and so Brett laughs to.

It takes them a full minute to calm down, and Eddy thinks that they’re so lucky that there aren’t many other patrons in the café, because they must look completely insane, laughing like that.

“Thanks for taking me here,” he says when he’s managed to calm down and put on a more serious face. “It’s so nice.”

Brett just shrugs. “Hey, it’s your birthday, so it’s my treat.”

Eddy’s chest fills with gratitude. He doesn’t know how to express it. He’s just so thankful that he’s got this friend who lets him rant about music and who tries to teach him how to improve his technique, and who takes him to get bubble tea on his birthday.

“Thanks,” he just says, feeling shy all of a sudden.

“You’re welcome. I’ve had to battle with my mum to get her to agree to let me walk here on my own. She’s a bit paranoid. But it was worth it.”

“Really?”

“Sure. You’re my best mate. I can’t not celebrate your birthday.”

“You’re my best friend too,” Eddy says softly, and it’s true. They’ve got so much in common.

“Glad to hear. It would’ve been fucking awkward otherwise. Do you want some cake? I can ask them for a candle so you can make a wish and shit…”

Eddy shakes his head. “Nah, thanks. Plus, I don’t have any wish to make.” In that moment, it’s true, he thinks. He’s kind of got everything he could wish for right now.

“I have,” Brett says softly. “I want to be a soloist someday. Don’t you?”

Eddy looks at him and smiles. _I kind of want to be like you_ , he thinks. Does that count as a wish?

* * *

"Son, come here.” Eddy’s parents are sitting next to each other on the sofa, looking serious. This doesn’t look good.

“I didn’t…” he begins, trying to find an excuse for whatever this is going to be about.

His father dismisses it with a wave of his hand.

His mother coughs. “We saw Mr. Robinson, your teacher, at the supermarket today,” she says eventually. His father nods and takes her hand in his.

“Okay…” Eddy’s not sure how to react to that. He’s not done anything that could annoy his teacher lately. At least he doesn’t think so. He’s been trying hard to please his parents with his school work.

“He says you’re doing really well in class,” Eddy’s mother continues, and Eddy’s shoulders relax.

“Yeah, I s’pose.” He only does well in school because it’s important for his parents. He doesn’t really care about it all that much.

“That’s good, son. I’m really glad to hear it,” Eddy’s mother says. She looks like she’s about to ask something, but she coughs again, so it’s Eddy’s father who speaks next.

“We’re proud that you’re doing well in school,” he says. “Keep it up.”

His mother nods in approval. “Who knows,” she says, smiling softly, “if you keep it up, maybe you can become a doctor someday.”

Eddy nods but says nothing.

* * *

Eddy’s sitting next to Brett on their music teacher’s sofa. They’re taking a break in their lesson because the teacher’s on the phone in the other room. It’s nice outside so the windows are open and there’s a gentle breeze blowing through the room. Eddy can’t really explain why, but he feels like this is a moment that he wants to remember for the rest of his life, so he tries to commit it all to memory. He wants to remember the feel of the wind gently blowing past the white curtains that ruffles his hair, wants to remember the distant sounds of two old men talking in the streets, the softness of the old toad-coloured sofa behind his back, the feel of Brett’s knee pressed against his, the rhythm in his voice as he whispers in Eddy’s hear “There’s two violists on a rooftop, both the same weight…”

Eddy laughs and laughs and laughs at the joke, and he thinks that this is it. This is what a perfect life is.

“I wish we could stay here like this forever,” he says when he’s laughed so much that his sides hurt and he can’t laugh anymore.

Brett looks at him intensely. He looks like he’s about to reply something but then…

“Alright! Let’s get to work now,” their teacher says. “That duet won’t perfect itself.”

When they get out of the lesson half an hour later, they’ve been chewed out so much that it feels like defeat. All that Eddy wants is to go home and hide in his bedroom. But as they’re going down the stairs, he feels Brett’s fingers close around his wrist.

“I’ve been wondering…” Brett says thoughtfully.

“Yeah?”

“D’you wanna go busking with me someday. We could go to the shopping centre and do it there. I’m sure we’d get loads of money.”

* * *

“Eddy, come here.” His father’s at the door, ready to leave for work, when he calls him. Just from the sound of his voice, Eddy can tell that there’s something wrong.

“Yeah, dad, what’s going on?”

Eddy’s dad looks kind of stressed, and Eddy doesn’t like the look of that. He’s been stressed a lot lately, and he looks grey and tired, like he hasn’t slept in ages. It’s never a good sign.

“Your mother’s not feeling well today,” his dad says. His hand is already on the handle of the door. “Can you do the shopping for her after school?”

From the tone of his voice, it’s clear that there’s no discussion possible. Eddy still tries. “I’ve got my music lesson after school today,” he protests, repressing the urge to wince in annoyance.

“Tsk. What’s more important, family or music?”

“Well, family, but…”

“Yes, family. Here’s the list your mother made. Money’s on the kitchen table.”

* * *

Sometimes, Eddy thinks that his violin teacher’s mad at him, and he’s not sure why. Sure, he’s missed quite a few lessons these last few months, but he’s always had a good excuse. It’s not like he wanted to. He didn’t have a choice.

“Eddy,” he sighs, shaking his head as his student plays the first bars of the piece he’s been rehearsing.

Eddy stops, surprised. He hadn’t expected to be interrupted so early in the piece. He looks up and meets his teacher’s eye. There’s a glint in them, a little flicker. Eddy shudders when he realises what it is.

His teacher’s not mad at him. He’s disappointed.

“Yes, sir?” he asks, and his voice gets caught in his throat.

“It doesn’t feel right.” There’s resignation in his teacher’s voice. “Stop thinking about the notes. Play with your heart. That’s where the musicality is going to come from.”

Eddy lowers his bow. “I don’t know how…”

“Yes, you do. Stop overthinking it. Stop thinking about playing the right notes. Play what the piece means to you.”

Eddy takes a deep breath. It’s not easy to stop overthinking it. It’s what he’s always done. But he tries. He tries to think only about the feel of the piece. Thinks about the last time he’s played it. Thinks about busking sessions and loose coins thrown into an old violin case, about ice-cold bubble teas in the rain and shared laughter.

“There,” Eddy’s teacher says softly. “That’s it. That’s the musicality. You’ve got it. You’ve always had it.”

There is something like defeat in his voice as he says it.

* * *

[ **Piece for this chapter** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5OjLKhmzQTA)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello reader, it’s me again. How are you today? I’m very grateful that you took the time to read this. I hope you’re doing well and taking good care of yourself.


	3. Dive In (Debussy - Nocturnes)

From his perch up on the rooftop, Eddy listens with his eyes closed. The air around him is hazy and the heat is dulling his senses, pressing on his chest with an invisible weight. He feels his shirt stick to his skin, and exhales softly as he tries to steady his heartbeat. The surface under his back is almost burning, but Eddy welcomes the sensation. It’s keeping him awake, on edge.

Out of an open window, music floats up to him, light notes plucked hesitantly in a wavering rhythm. Brett’s left hand pizz is still a little unsure, but it’s already better than Eddy’s by a mile. Brett’ll get there, eventually. He always does.

It doesn’t matter if the pizzicato is still uncertain. There’s a quality to the interpretation that has Eddy’s heart reeling in his chest. For all its imperfections, the piece still resonates with passion and intensity, a testament to the dedication of the interpret.

Brett’s been playing for the last twenty minutes, unaware that he’s performing a private concert for his hidden listener.

With his eyes closed, Eddy can picture him perfectly, standing by the old piano next to the open window. Eddy’s spent enough time over the last few years watching Brett play that he has no difficulty imagining it. He can follow the dainty fingers as they pluck the strings, the motion of the bow across the strings, sharp and meticulous. Behind his closed eyelids, Eddy can see Brett’s eyes flutter close when the music gets more intense, his jaw tense slightly through difficult passages. He can picture the exact way Brett’s neck twists as he places his jaw on the chin rest, the slight slope of his shoulders, the ways his chest-

“Fuck!” Eddy sighs, raising his arm to hit his own chest with the palm of his hand. “Fuck.”

For a long time, Eddy’s looked up to Brett. He’s admired his determination, his dedication to his craft, his courage as he does things without mulling over it forever like Eddy does. For a long time, Eddy's thought that he wanted to be like Brett. He’s not quite sure when it stopped being the case.

> Maybe it is when Eddy’s hand starts cramping after a long day of busking. He’s stopped playing only to realise that his fingers feel stuck in position. Just stretching them hurts. But then Brett takes Eddy’s hand in his, and gently presses his own fingers against the sore spots.
> 
> “You need to take care of your hands,” he says, softly massaging the knuckles. “They’re so precious.”
> 
> Maybe it is the day Eddy wins his last contest. He feels more or less ready for it, up until he has only fifteen minutes left before going on stage. One moment it's all fine, and the next, it's shaky bow all over the place, and Eddy feels like he's going to puke in front of the whole jury. But then Brett appears, like the angel that he is, bubble tea in one hand and a smile on his face.
> 
> “What are you doing here?” Eddy asks.
> 
> “Supporting you, duh.”
> 
> Maybe it is the moment Brett learns about Eddy’s dad passing away. He silently huggs him. It is not a common occurrence between them, so at first Eddy feels kind of awkward in the embrace. He doesn’t know what to do with his arms, he feels small and lost, and he doesn’t want to talk. But Brett says nothing, doesn’t ask Eddy how he feels or any other pointless thing. He just holds him, for what seemed like the longest time, until Eddy finally gives in and sobs on his shoulder.
> 
> Or maybe it is none of these things. Or all of these things. Maybe it is just a gradual thing, building up a little more every day.

“Fuck,” Eddy swears again, and his fingers curl into a fist as he grips onto the fabric of his shirt. For the longest time, he thought he wanted to be like Brett. But that’s no longer true. It hasn’t been true for a little while, even though he’s only admitted it to himself recently. Eddy doesn’t want to be like Brett. He wants to be _with_ Brett.

> The first time the thought presents itself clearly in his head, he has just turned sixteen, and Brett’s taking him for a bubble tea at their usual spot. They’re sat down in the corner near the window. Over the years, they’ve claimed the seats as theirs. They’re a lot quieter than usual. None of the joking and clowning around that usually happens when they’re together. But Eddy’s life has been really shit lately, and he doesn’t really have the heart. It’s his first birthday without his dad, and he doesn’t really want to celebrate. Brett still takes him out for bubble tea, though, like he’s done every year since Eddy’s turned thirteen. He doesn’t make a show of it, though, and Eddy’s grateful for it. Brett goes to the counter to order, and comes back with Eddy’s favourite. They sit down in silence, and don’t speak for a long time. After a while, Brett just reaches across the table to place his hand on Eddy’s and gently rub the back with his thumb.
> 
> ‘I love you’ Eddy simply thinks at that moment, and it doesn’t even come as a surprise.
> 
> ‘You’ve always been there for me,’ he thinks, ‘and I love you for it’.
> 
> He looks at Brett, sucking the pearls out of his bubble tea, and he thinks ‘I never want you to let go of my hand. Please don’t let go.’

The music has long since stopped when Eddy eventually gets up and comes back down to earth. The sun’s starting to set, but even the orange glow can’t hide the decrepitude of the streets. He’s dragging his feet, feeling his energy decrease as he goes on. These few moments when he listens to music are a welcome respite in his life, but that’s all they are. They’re just moments, and soon enough they end and push him back into the crude concerns of his daily life.

His steps lead him to a small grocery store. He pushes the door, which opens with an out of tune chime. Behind the counter, the cashier – a teenager just a couple of years younger than Eddy – is lazily flipping through a gaming magazine. The store is empty. Eddy goes straight to the storeroom at the back. There’s a middle-aged man there, and he’s busy opening cardboard boxes with a small knife. When he sees this, Eddy halts and feels a knot tightening in his chest.

The man looks up, and his gaze darkens when he sees Eddy. “What sort of time is this?” he asks coldly. “You should have been here to help unload the truck.”

“I’m sorry, uncle, I didn’t’-” Eddy begins.

The slap comes unannounced but Eddy doesn’t flinch. It’s not the first time this happens, and by now he’s used to it. The blow isn’t hard enough to hurt, and is never followed by anything stronger. It’s just a warning, a show of power.

With time, Eddy’s learned to accept it as just a different way of communication. Besides, he’s not a stranger to violence himself. No matter how much he hates it, there are times when it comes as a necessary relief.

> He is fifteen the first time he really punches someone. It happens in school and it’s about something meaningless and stupid, he’s upset and angry and he can’t control himself. And he regrets it immediately. First of all, because he’s been taught that violence is never a solution. But also because there’s a sharp pain in his hand that sends him into a panicked state. He’s a violinist and his hands are his most precious instrument. If he breaks his fingers, then it’s over. The pain dulls quickly, but Eddy considers it a warning. Never use your hands to punch anyone or anything. It’s not worth the risk.
> 
> And yet it keeps happening again. It happens again because someone tries to steal his violin one day. It happens again because his sister’s boyfriend is a slob who keeps hurting her. It happens again because sometimes the customers don’t pay up their debt, and Eddy has to get that money back.
> 
> It keeps happening again, and every time Eddy thinks about his hands, thinks about his violin playing. Every time he tells himself that it won’t ever happen again. But every time, it happens again, because every time it seems like it’s the only way out of the situation.

By the time Eddy’s done unboxing and putting everything on the shelves, it’s already dark outside. He doesn’t have much time left, so he hurries home. It’s a small apartment where they live now, and Eddy never would have thought that he would miss his old home so much, miss the warm interior, miss having his own space so much that it’s keeping him up at night when he tosses and turns on the couch. It’s cold and dark when he gets inside, the only light coming from the small kitchen. Eddy’s expecting to find his mother there, but it’s only his sister. She’s huddled on a chair as she pores over a pile of books, one hand resting on her stomach as the other nervously fiddles with her hair.

“Hey,” Eddy says as he goes straight to the coffee machine. He shouldn’t be drinking coffee just before playing, but right now he really needs it.

His sister looks up with a tired smile.

“Hey yourself,” she says. She has dark circles under her eyes, and probably hasn’t slept in days.

Eddy feels a sudden rush of affection towards her. In two strides, he closes the distance between them, and places a kiss on top of her head.

“You look exhausted. You should rest, it’s not good…” He says it half-heartedly. He knows she’s not going to listen anyway. They’re both the same in that regard. They’ll finish whatever they’ve started even if it’s to the detriment of their health.

She shrugs her shoulders. The hand on her stomach clenches, and she blinks rapidly, chasing away tears that are threatening to spill.

“I don’t know why I’m even bothering,” she says in a quivering voice. “It’s not as if I’ll ever manage to finish University anyway.”

There’s nothing Eddy can answer to that, so he just rests his hand on her shoulder and rubs it gently. They’ve both been fucked over by life, and there’s no words that could make things right.

“He’s hit you again.” She raises her hand to brush against his cheek.

“I barely felt it,” Eddy says, waving her concerns away. “Where’s mum?”

“In bed. She was coughing again. I made her some tea and told her to rest.”

“You should rest too,” he says again.

“Later maybe…”

Eddy grabs his sister’s hand and squeezes it tightly. There’s a long silence between them.

“I’d better go,” he says eventually. “I’ve got a gig tonight. I’m already late. I’ve only come here to change shirts and get my violin.”

He’s about to walk away but his sister holds him back. It’s her turn to squeeze his hand.

“You’re going to play with Brett?” she asks.

Eddy nods. “Yeah. He’s probably already waiting.”

She still doesn’t let go of his hand. “Have you told him yet?” she asks softly.

“Told him what?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.

Her voice is very soft when she answers. “That you’re in love with him.”

Eddy tries to say something but his voice gets caught in his throat, so he just shakes his head.

“You know there’s nothing wrong with it, right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“No, Eddy, I’m serious. You’re allowed to feel what you feel. There is nothing wrong with it.”

“Outside, maybe. Here though…”

She sighs, but lets go of his hand. “I still think you should tell him.”

> Eddy’s the one who finds them the Friday evening gig. He hears about it through his uncle, and he immediately thinks that it would be perfect for Brett and him. Eddy would take any excuse to spend more time with Brett, and that’s as good as any. With school and their respective obligations, they don’t have too much time to spend together. There’s the occasional music lesson that they share when they manage to persuade their music teacher that they need to rehearse a duet, and there are a few busking sessions, but even those have been cut down lately. Plus, Brett’s always complaining that he’d like some money to go out, so he’d appreciate the job. Eddy tries not to think too much about who Brett wants to go out with. If he doesn’t think about it, he doesn’t have to face the fact that it upsets him.
> 
> When he tells Brett about it, he’s so fucking excited that he’s literally bouncing up and down like a kid. He’s delighted with the idea, delighted with himself, delighted to tell Brett.
> 
> He does see the flicker of concern on Brett’s face when he tells him where, but he chooses to ignore it. No. This is just his. This is his moment. He gets to spend an entire evening with his best friend, they get to play music together, and they get to be paid for it. Who gives a fuck about the fact that the establishment is kind of shady, and that they’re kind of too young to be legally employed by it in the first place? Certainly not Eddy. He’s not going to let anything bring him down.
> 
> “Okay,” Brett says as he lets Eddy convince him. “Nice. Imagine all the bubble teas we’ll get with the money.”
> 
> “Hell yeah,” Eddy grins. He throws his arms around Brett’s shoulders, and brings him closer. “Come on,” he jokes, “let’s dazzle them with our talent.”
> 
> He’s not even nervous when they show the owner of the place what they can do. He’s just so sure that this gig is for them that he doesn't think about being anxious about his playing.
> 
> When they get the gig, Brett’s so happy that he throws his arms around Eddy and hugs him tightly. Eddy hugs back, thinking that this is the nicest he’s felt in while, and that they really should hug more often.

It’s night, and the air outside is a lot colder. As usual, Eddy’s late. He really tries not to, but there always seems to be something that comes up. They’re always supposed to rehearse before they get on stage, but they hardly ever get the chance. He’s stopped counting the number of times he’s sight-read a piece. The worst thing is that Brett never complains. He just accepts Eddy like he is, flaws and all, and that only makes things more difficult.

When he gets there, of course Brett’s already backstage, and of course he’s running through the piece in a way that puts him to shame. Eddy feels it in his chest. He’s going to have to work harder, practice more. He can’t miss another lesson if he wants to keep up with Brett.

But then Brett sees him, and smiles widely.

“Someone’s late again,” he teases.

Eddy shakes his head, puts on an indifferent mask. He can’t let Brett see how just a simple smile is moving him so deeply. Not yet.

“Ah, sorry. Do we have the time to run through the piece before…”

“Quickly then. But after, I have something to tell you.”

Eddy looks at his friends, eyebrows shooting up. He wants to know now. What is it that Brett wants to tell him? He doesn’t really like surprises. Not anymore. They hardly ever turn out well. But Brett just waves off his concerns before he happily starts the piece. Maybe it’s just the lighting, but it seems like there’s a sparkle in his eyes, and Eddy knows that he’s never going to get out of this friendship with his heart intact. He’s fallen too deep and too fast.

 _You matter so much to me_ , he thinks as he watches Brett pour his everything into the music. _I should be happy with your friendship. It should be enough to have those glances and those smiles, but I’m selfish and I want more. And I should tell you. I should tell you how much you mean to me, how my mind clears when I see you and how my chest tightens when you leave. I should tell you that I’m in love and fuck, it hurts so much. I should tell you that I’d do anything to make you as happy as you make me._

The performance is a whirlwind. Eddy feels like he’s playing half of it on autopilot. He couldn’t even tell if he’s played well or not. Was he even in tune? He just lets his feelings take over, and before he knows it, it is all over.

From the way Brett looks at him when they leave the stage, he thinks he must have played some of it well, but how could he be sure?

“Dude,” Brett says, almost breathless. There’s something in his eyes that has Eddy hold in his breath. “That was your best playing ever.”

“You think so?” Eddy asks. He’s not convinced. He’s sure that Brett wouldn’t intentionally lie to him, but he doesn’t put it past him to say things that he knows will make Eddy feel good.

“Yeah.” Brett’s voice is still barely a breath, and the sound rattles through Eddy’s chest. “Bro, I had to focus so hard to keep playing. It was so beautiful, Eddy. I couldn’t look away. Surely you’ve noticed.”

Eddy shakes his head. He hasn’t noticed. But his friend looks so serious that it has to be true. He breathes in, settles himself.

“Brett? You said you had something to tell me? I think – I think I’ve got something to tell you too.”

Brett’s eyes light up again. In a split second, he goes from serious to over excited. “Oh yeah! I’d prepared a whole speech and all, but poof… all gone.” His smile grows even wider. “Anyway. I did it, Eddy! I got my acceptance letter from the Con this morning. I couldn’t wait to tell you.”

Eddy feels like a ton of bricks has just been dropped on his head. Of course Brett was going to go on and study music. And then he’d make proper musician friends. Musicians who can actually play in tune and who don’t miss half of their lessons. What a dumb thing to think that this could go on forever.

He realises that Brett is still looking at him, and he hasn’t reacted at all.

“Oh yeah? Good… good,” he manages to say, his voice strained.

He sees the disappointment on Brett’s face.

“What the hell, bro,” he says, “I thought you’d be happy for me. What’s with the face?”

Eddy feels kind of ashamed of himself. He shouldn’t make this about himself. This is Brett’s dream coming true.

“I am,” he manages to get out. “I am happy for you. No, it’s really good. I’m glad.” He feels guilty now. “Just… just don’t forget about me when you make all your new musician friends, hey?” He forces a smile on his face, but it feels strained.

Brett laughs lightly, unaware of Eddy’s distress. “Forget you?” he’s shaking his head. “Bro, it’s just one year. I won’t forget you. And then next year you’ll join me. It’ll be so great. We’re going to learn so much!”

He’s back to his excited self, all happy about his news. Eddy feels everything crumbling around. Yes, they’d talked about it. Both joining the conservatory, launching a music career. As if that would ever happen for him. He’s not really talked about it with Brett, but he thought it was kind of obvious. Now’s the time, he guesses.

“Not gonna happen,” he mutters.

“What do you mean, not gonna happen?”

He lowers his head, looking at the ground as he tries to make Brett understand.

It seems like Brett doesn’t really realise it. Or he doesn’t want to. He’s a bit frantic as he speaks. “We can find a solution, bro. I mean… Let’s get some bubble tea first, and then we talk this through, right? I mean, we can find you a solution. If we both work on it, we’ll figure something out. Do you need me to talk to your mum? I can talk to her. I’ll look up grants and shit online. I’ll figure something out.”

The last thing that Eddy wants is to dampen Brett’s excitement with his own trouble. He never should have said anything, now he feels so fucking guilty about it he could cry. At this point, he just wants to get away from there, so he mutters a lie about having something to do and apologises to Brett.

> Eddy’s favourite moments have always been about playing music with Brett. When he was a child, he thought that it would be so cool to have that older kid be his friend, teach him about the repertoire he’s learning, joke with him about their music teacher.
> 
> The reality is different. Maybe young Eddy was kind of looking for an older brother. Someone to make him feel cooler. But that’s not what being friends with Brett is like. It’s not about feeling cool or anything. It’s about having someone to share a passion with, someone with whom he can form a deeper connection.
> 
> They’re very different. Brett’s outgoing and daring, and he doesn’t shy away from things. Eddy’s more reserved. He’ll think everything twice. He’ll wait until Brett pushes him to do something. They’re very different, and yet they’re very similar. Sometimes, Eddy thinks that they’re like a mirrored image of each other. But that’s what makes them work so well together. That’s what made their friendship so special.
> 
> But that was before Eddy’s feelings came in the way.
> 
> Sometimes, Brett massages Eddy’s neck when he’s too tense to play, and he jokes. “You’ve fallen asleep on the couch again, haven’t you?” Eddy never answers. Because he doesn’t want to tell the truth. And because he needs all the concentration he can get to ignore the feeling bubbling in the pit of his stomach as Brett’s fingers press against his skin.
> 
> Sometimes, Brett talks about them joining the conservatorium together, about late practice sessions and early bubble tea runs, about graduating and joining an orchestra together, and Eddy thinks “Yes, yes to all of that, let’s do all of it together, let’s move abroad and work together in a prestigious orchestra, let’s share accommodation and play together until we’re old.”
> 
> Sometimes, Eddy barges into his music lesson, breathless, and says “I need to learn this technique,” or “I need to learn this piece,” because Brett is learning it and Eddy needs to be able to follow him. And his teacher looks at him like he knows the reason, but he doesn’t say anything.
> 
> Sometimes, Eddy thinks he’ll get to keep Brett forever, but that not true, is it?
> 
> Moments spent playing music with Brett have always been Eddy’s favourite moments, but now they’re tainted with something bitter, something vicious, as Eddy fiercely tries to keep up with Brett even though he knows in his heart that he won’t succeed in the long run.

Even though he’s said he had to go, Eddy doesn’t make it very far. He waits at the corner of the streets and he watches as Brett leaves, a couple of minutes later. He always does that, and he doesn’t know why. He always leaves first but then turns around to watch Brett goes. It’s bittersweet, and it kind of hurts, but he can’t stop.

As he does so, Eddy thinks about the evening, thinks about Brett studying music and then eventually moving away.

He hates that he doesn’t feel happy for Brett, hates that he’s ruined his announcement just because he’s too selfish.

He needs to be a better friend, he thinks. He just doesn’t know how.

* * *

**Hi. Thank you for reading this. I hope you liked it. Take care of yourself and enjoy the rest of your day. <3**

**Also, listen to Debussy’s Nocturnes.[It's a great piece.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M0LR1Rw0W4c)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I guess?


	4. Hold Your Breath (Beethoven – Les adieux : Sonata 26, op. 81a)

_Eddy is on his knees in front of Brett. It’s the perfect incarnation of what he’s always felt, he finds himself thinking. A picture of sublime devotion. His feelings are seeping out of every pore. He tries to hold them in but he’s fighting a lost battle. They’re leaking out. It’s in every look, every smile, even the tiniest of gestures._

_He’d give everything, he thinks, if only he had anything to give._

_He sees Brett raise his head, meets his eyes. In their darkness, he sees himself. He’s small, lost, almost begging. Look at me, his reflection seems to say, just look at me and see me._

_He thinks ‘I want. I want so much it hurts’._

_He thinks ‘I can’t’._

_He thinks ‘It’s killing me’._

_He feels like he’s drowning in Brett’s eyes. They’re so dark and deep and Eddy’s pulled under again and again. He’s breathless against the tide, and there’s nothing he can do anymore._

_He thinks ‘it’s going to break me’._

_He thinks ‘it’s going to destroy you’._

_He feels Brett’s fingers on him. They’re so light against his cheek, barely brushing the skin. Eddy’s heart is in his throat. He wonders if he isn’t hallucinating the whole scene. He wants to close his eyes to commit the sensation to memory, but he can’t look away. He’s so tired of fighting. He wants. He wants._

_He thinks ‘was everything always going to lead up to this?’_

*

(da capo al fine)

*

Brett starts his first semester at the Conservatory, and Eddy gives himself a moment to grieve.

He deliberately misses their first gig together that year, because he can’t bear to face Brett. He hates himself for that, he hates the envy that he feels bubbling in his chest at the thought of Brett devoting the entirety of his days to music while he’s still stuck in high school, hates the jealously he feels towards all the faceless musicians that will get to share this with Brett. He misses their first gig because he doesn’t want to hear about how great it all is, but most of all he doesn’t want Brett to feel like he can’t tell Eddy how great it is. So he stays away, takes a couple of days off, ignores the rest of the world. Sees no one and does nothing. Silently thanks his sister for the space she gives him.

Then he picks himself up. He metaphorically kicks himself in the butt, and puts on his bravest, brightest smile. He does his best to be the friend he knows Brett deserves. He jokes and laughs with him when he needs to let off some steam, he listens to him vent about classes and professors that he deems uninteresting, he agrees to read Brett’s essays and papers and he tries his best to give useful advice. He brings bubble tea when Brett’s too worried to think about anything else than his exams, and massages his shoulders when he’s too tense to play. He does everything that he knows Brett would do for him. And then some.

It’s harder when the first year ends. Eddy does his best not to think that it should have been his turn, that he should have had that life, too. He does his best to feel okay with it, does his best to feel happy for Brett and nothing else. He almost succeeds.

He doesn’t even feel bad when Brett discovers his love of parties, doesn’t feel a tinge of jealousy as he listens to the names that Brett starts listing. There’s Jenny and then Irene and then Mei, and Eddy thinks that it’s fine. Of course he isn’t the only one to see how amazing Brett is, and it’s alright, Brett likes girls and Eddy never stood a chance anyway. But the list keeps growing longer, Brett keeps adding new names, and there’s Jessica and Emily and Henri and Clara and Patrick, and it’s all fine, Eddy doesn’t feel like dying when he thinks about it, anyway, whatever, moving on.

Brett thrives at the Conservatory. It’s like he was made for this life. Years pass and Eddy can see him grow as a musician and as a man. He sees his technique improve, sees the hours of practice pay off, sees Brett getting more confident, in himself and in his music.

Brett thrives at the Conservatory and Eddy feels happy and proud. He practises every waking minute to keep up with his best friend, vicariously lives music through him.

Meanwhile, the rest of his life just goes up in flames.

* * *

After his sister moves out, Eddy’s left alone with his mum in the apartment. It’s very strange. He’s not used to this, to the silence. The newfound quietness unsettles him. Everything’s too empty. Even the weight of the air is different. It’s almost peaceful and Eddy can’t help thinking about the eye of the storm. If they just move a little from their current position, the winds and the waves will crash upon them. It’s only a matter of time before all hell breaks loose.

They don’t really talk much. There’s not much to say anyway. Sometimes his mum’s doing better and it’s almost like before. She smiles at him and ruffles his hair with her hand, gently encourages him to be the best he can be. Sometimes he hears her coughing until the early hours of the morning and he tries to drown out the sound in his pillow but he still feels it resonating through his own chest.

Sometimes he misses his sister, misses the silent understanding between them, the shared weight of their common past. He misses having someone who knew all his secrets and who held his hand when he felt too sad. But it’s better, he supposes. If not for her, then for the child. She’s married now, and her life’s no longer running parallel to his. It’s just that sometimes he thinks about the girl who tickled him to get him to confess whatever secret he was hiding, and he misses her.

Now it’s just him and his mum, and they move next to each other in a tiny apartment that somehow feels too big for them.

“You could have been a doctor,” his mother says regretfully when she catches him buried in a book.

Eddy says nothing. He knows that there’s no use in dwelling on these things. He doesn’t want to think about _what ifs_ and _could have been’s_. It won’t do anyone any good. Some things you can’t change. You just need to accept things as they are. He doesn’t want to start the discussion and hear the guilt in his mother’s voice as she thinks about the turn their lives have taken.

‘I could have been a musician,’ he still thinks as he puts down the book moments later, but he doesn’t say. Just thinking it is hurtful enough.

The book is not a book but a syllabus on music history. Eddy’s borrowed it from Brett after he finished his first year and passed the exam. There are still notes added in Brett’s messy handwriting in the margins of the first few pages, back when Brett was still paying attention in class. After a while, the writing turns into treble clefs and semi quavers hastily sketched in blue ink. On the bottom of a page, there’s the first few bars of Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto. Brett gave up on the third bar, scratching the notes that he couldn’t remember properly. The second half of the book is blank, signalling the moment Brett stopped attending that particular class to devote all of his time to practice.

* * *

Eddy stares at his face in the mirror, and can’t repress his own wince. It’s kind of bad, this time. His fingers press against his cheekbone and he suppresses a pained whine. It’s an ugly shade of blue and green mixed with purple, and there’s no way he could possibly hide it this time.

“Jesus,” he mutters. Each press of his fingers sends a bolt of pain through his skull but he keeps touching the bruise. It’s like he can’t stop and he examines his face with fascinated repulsion. 

On his bedside table, there’s a picture of his family, taken way before his father died, and he can’t help thinking about it. In the picture, he’s ten or eleven years old, his smile eats up half his face, shows both rows of teeth, reaches his eyes and lights little sparks in them. He’s got his head slightly tilted to the side, towards his sister. His mom’s standing behind him, both hands on his shoulders.

Whenever Eddy thinks about himself, it’s this image that he sees. He finds it hard to reconcile it with the damaged face staring back at him.

He remembers the can of beans flying at his face and winces. He never thought that his uncle would go further than a slap in the face, but it seems like the old man’s got a fucking good aim for his age. Eddy presses against the bruise one more time, and feels bile rise in his throat. His teeth broke the skin of his lower lip at the impact, blood exploded in his mouth, and he can still taste the iron on his tongue.

It’s not the state of his face or even the pain that bothers him the most. It’s a Friday, and he’s supposed to play in less than an hour. He doesn’t want to show up like this. He’s seen the way Brett looks whenever he shows up with a visible mark.

He thinks about not going, not showing up. He’d rather disappoint Brett than worry him. But in the end the need to see him is stronger than Eddy’s resolve.

So he goes.

Brett’s eyes widen when Eddy gets there. He winces visibly, and Eddy squares his shoulders, ready for… he doesn’t know what.

“Mate… what’s that?”

Eddy shrugs. Steels himself. Tries to dismiss Brett’s concerns with a wave of his hand.

But Brett insists. It’s the first time he does that, and Eddy’s not prepared for it.

“No, Eddy, who did that?”

“It’s fine, we’ve got to be on stage,” Eddy urges him, avoiding his question. “Hurry up.”

Brett shakes his head. He’s standing right in front of him, looking at him with something like anger.

“Fuck, Eddy,” he says, and he places his palms on either side of Eddy’s face. “Dude, that’s fucked up,” he says. His fingers trace the contours of the bruise, and Eddy feels the familiar bolts going through his skull. But these are Brett’s fingers and the feeling is different. The mix of pain and pleasure takes his breath away.

Oh, god, he’s really fucked up, isn’t he?

* * *

Eddy’s standing in his teacher’s living room, looking through the books collecting dust in the bookcases. Most of them are in a terrible state of neglect. He’s pretty sure they haven’t been taken out of the bookcases since they were put there. He runs his fingers along the spines. Most of the books are in Russian, and Eddy can’t read Cyrillic alphabets so he has no idea what they are about. But every now and then there’s a book in English that seems interesting, so he pulls it out and places it on the table.

“Hey, Kostya,” he calls after a moment, “is it okay if I borrow these?”

His old music teacher is sitting on an old couch that has seen better days. He’s leaning his head against the wall and he’s got a glass in his hand.

“So you’re not going to play at all, today?” the teacher says, pointedly ignoring Eddy’s question.

Eddy shrugs. “I’m only here to bring back the sheet music,” he says, vaguely gesturing at a pile of papers the table. “And to ask about the books. Like I told you, I can’t afford the lessons at the moment.”

His teacher leans forward with what seems like an overwhelming effort. He puts the glass on the piano to his right. Eddy winces at the sacrilegious action.

“So, about the books…” Eddy insists.

Konstantin joins his fingers under his chin and stares at him for a long moment.

“Out of all my students,” he says finally, speaking very slowly, “you were the only one who I thought really had it.”

“Yeah? Whatever. The books?”

“I’ve also known for a while that you were never going to become a professional musician,” the teacher adds after a pause.

“Nice,” Eddy responds, trying his best to sound detached. “So I guess it’s a no about the books.”

“Play.”

Eddy sighs. “Can’t afford it. Not like there was even a point to it, right? Not according to you anyway…”

There is a light that flickers in Konstantin’s eye. “Did I say something about money? Does it look like I’m in the middle of a lesson now anyway? So don’t waste my time and fucking play me something. Consider it a favour to an old man. I’d like to listen to your Bruch now.”

“If you want to listen to Bruch, just play it.”

There’s a long silence in the room, and Eddy wonders if maybe he’s gone too far. But Kostya doesn’t get angry. He sighs, and then takes his glass in his right hand and extends the left towards Eddy. There’s a very visible tremor in his fingers.

“Does it look like I still can?”

Eddy winces. “That’s not a glass of water, is it?” He doesn’t want to sound accusatory, but he does.

“Are you gonna play or not?”

Eddy points at the trophies, certificates and photographs locked away in a cabinet. “What a shameful waste of talent,” he spits out.

“Did I ask for your opinion? Now get your fucking violin and play, kid.”

* * *

Brett gets more and more tactile as time passes, and Eddy thinks he can learn to live with that, too. Until he can’t anymore.

It’s always small, inconspicuous gestures. Eddy shouldn’t make a mountain out of it. There’s nothing to it. At least for Brett. It’s just normal things, a brush of the shoulder, a pat on the back, a hand that lingers on a forearm. It shouldn’t be anything to Eddy either. It certainly shouldn’t feel like a blow to the heart every time it happens.

Eddy does his utter best to ignore it. He tries everything he can think about. He tries getting away from Brett, avoiding touching altogether. But that is even worse. So he stops it. He’ll take it and suffer in silence. It’s fine. It’s all fine.

He tries to date other people. For a while he thinks that maybe if he can make himself fall in love with someone else, he won’t feel like drowning every time Brett looks at someone else. But it doesn’t work either, of course. And it’s unfair to the others. So he stops with that too.

He tries everything until the only thing that’s left is to endure all of it with a brave face.

Some days, Brett rests his head against Eddy’s shoulder when he’s tired after a gig. It’s so natural, so domestic, and Eddy does his best to ignore the feeling bubbling in his chest when it happens. He laughs and ruffles Brett’s hair. He tells himself ‘no. no, this is not for you’. And he waits until it passes.

Some days, in the cramped space behind the stage of their Friday gig, Brett places his hand on the small of Eddy’s back to gently nudge him out of the way. Eddy ignores the fire in his stomach like a champion. Touch? What touch?

Some days, Brett winks at Eddy from across the stage, and Eddy’s heart does a somersault in his chest. But his face doesn’t betray anything. He’s a master in the art of pretending. Cardiac arrhythmia? Never heard of her.

Today, Brett’s playing with the hair on the nape of Eddy’s neck as they sit outside in the sun. At their feet, there’s an open music case with the grand sum of two dollars that they’ve made while busking. A resounding success. They’re not children anymore and apparently passers-by don’t give money to adults in this town.

Brett jokes that Eddy’s hair’s getting too long, that he needs a haircut. He runs his fingers through the locks, lightly scratches at Eddy’s scalp with his fingernails. And Eddy plays it cool. It’s fine. He doesn’t want to lean into Brett’s touch with a sigh. Doesn’t want to turn his head to meet Brett’s lips. It’s totally fine.

“I loved your Bruch today,” Brett says as he rests his head against Eddy’s shoulder. His fingers are still in Eddy’s hair, and he tugs lightly.

Eddy’s heart feels like it’s exploding into pieces in his chest. But it’s fine. Everything’s fine.

* * *

Eddy’s head hits the wall. Blood explodes inside of his mouth. He almost chokes on it. There’s a ringing in his right ear. His vision blurs for a moment. He doesn’t care about any of it.

All that he feels is the pain that bolts through his arm, from the tip of his fingers all the way up to his shoulder, as his wrist contorts in an unnatural way.

* * *

“How are you?”

Eddy looks at his sister, sitting across from him at the kitchen table. They haven’t seen each other in what seems like forever. But that’s life, he guesses. Other things come in the way. And in his sister’s case, that other thing is her husband, who still hasn’t forgiven Eddy for a broken nose a couple of years ago.

“I’m fine,” he responds. The answer’s so ingrained in him that it comes out automatically now. He doesn’t even have to think about it anymore.

He leans down to the side to pick his niece from the ground where she’s been waddling around, winces a little at the pain in his wrist.

“C’mere Amy,” he mutters, as he kisses the top of her head. “Do you know that you’re the best niece ever?”

She giggles and protests at the same time, a cute incoherent mess, and over the top of her head, Eddy sees his sister roll her eyes.

“Okay, okay, go explore then,” he tells the toddler as he puts her back down.

“Seriously, Eddy, how are you?” his sister asks. Even if they haven’t seen each other in ages, she can still read him like a book.

He shrugs.

There’s a long silence.

“I wish you’d talk to me,” she insists.

“What’s there to say?”

There’s another silence.

“I really think it would be better for mum to come live with us. Better for her health. And she’d see Amy every day,” Eddy’s sister finally says. Her voice is very, very quiet.

Eddy nods. He knows she’s right. “Yeah. It would be better…”

His mum hasn’t left yet, but it already feels weirdly empty in the apartment. If he’s going to be alone, he should move out too, he thinks. Get a smaller place. Save some money.

“I’m sorry about it,” his sister insists.

“Don’t be. You’re right. It’s better for her.”

“You know I’d ask you to come too, right?” There’s anxiety in her voice. “It’s just… You know… Ronnie doesn’t really want you around.”

“I get it. I don’t really want to be around him either.”

“Eddy…”

“Sorry…”

They don’t talk about it anymore after that. They exchange platitudes about the weather, talk about Amy, lapse into an uncomfortable silence. Eventually, she gets up to leave.

“I promise I’ll come visit you more,” she says feverishly.

She makes a move to grab his hand, and Eddy remembers too late that he can’t wince or she’ll see.

“What’s happened?” she asks. Then she sees the marks. “What the hell,” she swear.

Amy giggles.

Eddy winces again. “It’s nothing,” he tries to say, but his sister’s not having it. “It’s just sprained,” he insists.

“I swear to God I’m going to-“she begins. Then she stops. Because what could she possibly do. So she just throws her arms around him and hugs him. Not wanting to be left out, Amy grabs his leg to be part of the hug.

“It’s getting uncomfortable,” Eddy says after a moment.

“Shut the fuck up,” his sister retorts.

“Fuck up,” Amy repeats.

They both giggle nervously. “We’re a bad influence,” Eddy says. His sister nods. He wants to know something. “Hey, sis,” he asks, “are you happy?”

She looks at him, eyes wide. The time she takes before she answers seems to stretch on.

“I’m not unhappy,” she finally says.

Eddy nods. Is it enough?

* * *

His wrist injury keeps Eddy from playing violin for six whole weeks. By the end of it, he feels like he’s going insane. No violin, no duets, no Brett. As soon as he gets better, he only thinks about one thing. Playing. His hand still feels stiff, but he couldn’t wait one more day. Besides, today is a Friday, and he promised Brett that they would play the Bach double. He can’t disappoint him again.

He meets Brett mere seconds before going on stage. They haven’t seen each other in a while, but no one could tell. They smile and joke around and it’s as if they’ve seen each other yesterday.

When they play, Eddy feels like they’re connected. It’s not a new feeling. But it always leaves him ecstatic when the piece ends.

It’s Brett who suggests to go out, and Eddy needs some convincing. Not that he doesn’t want to celebrate the great performance that they’ve just pulled. But he doesn’t trust himself around Brett and alcohol. He knows things are going to slip out that he’d rather remain unsaid.

But Brett’s so damned enthusiastic about it. And there’s something so endearing about Brett bouncing around, so happy and excited. It’s like having their childhood back, before things got… well…

With some internal convincing, Eddy manages to get excited about it too. He’s heard Brett talk about parties a lot, but they’ve never attended one together. But this could be fun. Dancing, laughing, maybe that’s exactly what they need.

Things flip like a switch in a split second.

Eddy sees Brett go from overexcited to being on the brink of a panic attack in the blink of an eye. It’s impossible to know what suddenly happens, what triggers it, but there are more pressing matters. Brett’s grasping at Eddy like he needs something to steady himself, and there’s no talk about going out anymore. Eddy’s familiar enough with anxiety to know that Brett needs reassurance and a safe environment.

He does his best to guide Brett back home. It’s not an easy thing. Brett’s explanations are interrupted by harsh breathing. They nearly get lost twice on the way. By the time they get there, Eddy’s managed to calm Brett down a little, but he still has no idea what caused the whole thing. It makes him feel incredibly helpless. How can he help Brett when he doesn’t know what’s wrong.

They get to the room on the top floor, and Eddy realizes that it’s the first he’s been here. By now, Brett’s desperately trying to apologise, and Eddy doesn’t know how to make him understand that this is not necessary. There is nothing to apologise for.

Eddy looks around, trying to find something to distract Brett. If he can get him to relax, maybe Brett will share what’s going on with him, and then Eddy can fix it.

The studio is just so Brett. It’s warm and cosy. There’s sheet music everywhere. Eddy has no problem picturing his friend in this environment. He can see Brett getting his coffee in the morning, cramming a semester’s worth of information in one morning just before an exam, practicing in every corner of the room.

“Nice place,” he says.

Brett shakes his head like he doesn’t believe him, but at least he sees to be calm now. He doesn’t look like he wants to talk about it, though.

“I’m gonna let you rest,” Eddy says, “we’ll go out some other time.”

He almost freaks out when he realises that he’s spent the last thirty seconds petting Brett’s hair. This is not just a friendly gesture. Eddy’s tired and worried, and he’s way too obvious. Brett doesn’t seem to mind, though. Still. Eddy better leave before his body does even more to betray him.

Brett stops him as he’s about to turn to the door. He hands Eddy an envelope, and Eddy blanks for a moment. What the fuck is happening? He tears it open without thinking, and has to reread it twice before it registers.

Brett’s asking him to come to his fucking graduation and Eddy’s heart just about stops.

So this is it, hey? This is the moment he loses his friend for good. He can see it already. Brett’s going to move abroad to further his studies and he’ll forget about Eddy. Or he’s going to get a job in an orchestra on the other side of the country, and he’ll be too busy to think about his friend stuck in their old town.

The following minutes are a blur. Nothing registers properly. Somehow, Eddy’s now arguing with Brett that he has nothing to do at the graduation party – which is true – and he watches helplessly as Brett’s anxiety resurfaces. He doesn’t want to be the cause of Brett’s anxiety. That’s the last thing he wants. But he’s too shaken himself to say the words that would make everything right.

So Brett spirals. He’s sitting on his bed with his face in his hands and his speech makes less and less sense. The words he’s saying reach Eddy in waves, and they’re hurting him more than any injury he’s ever endured. “… the music… It only ever made sense with you, Eddy… I need you … it doesn’t make sense… please…”

Every word is like a punch directly to Eddy’s heart. He sinks on his knees in front of Brett. Anxiety is contagious and he feels like he can’t breathe. “Don’t say that,” he pleads, “don’t say that. You’ll break my heart.”

His own thoughts are like a storm in Eddy’s head. He can’t think clearly anymore. He’s trying his damned best to contain all the emotions that are assailing him, but Brett’s looking at him like he’s never looked at him before and he can’t contain anything anymore. The dams are breaking, and Eddy’s feelings are flooding out. Whatever happens now is out of his control.

He’s on his knees in front of Brett, and it’s the perfect incarnation of all that he’s always felt. A picture of sublime devotion. He’d give Brett everything, if only he had anything to give. His feelings are seeping out of every pore. He tries to hold them in but he’s fighting a lost battle. They’re leaking out. It’s in every look, every smile, even the tiniest of gestures.

Brett raises his head and their eyes meet. Eddy sees himself in the other’s eyes.

He thinks ‘I want. I want so much it hurts’.

He thinks ‘I can’t’.

He thinks ‘It’s killing me’.

He feels like he’s drowning in Brett’s eyes. They’re so dark and deep and Eddy’s pulled under again and again. He’s breathless against the tide, and there’s nothing he can do anymore.

He thinks ‘it’s going to break me’.

He thinks ‘it’s going to destroy you’.

He feels Brett’s fingers on him. They’re so light against his cheek, barely brushing the skin. Eddy’s heart is in his throat. He wonders if he isn’t hallucinating the whole scene. He wants to close his eyes to commit the sensation to memory, but he can’t look away. He’s so tired of fighting. He wants. He wants.

He thinks ‘was everything always going to lead up to this?’

Brett’s fingers are still on his skin. He’s following the curve of Eddy’s upper lip now, never once breaking eye contact and Eddy thinks ‘fuck it. Fuck all of it’. If he’s going to drown, then fine, let him drown. He’s letting go of everything. No more holding back.

He parts his lips. Takes Brett’s finger in his mouth. Tastes the other’s skin.

He’s still on his knees when Brett’s hand lands on the side of his neck, gently pulling him forward. ‘if this is the last time they see each other,’ Eddy thinks, ‘then at least he’ll have had this’. Then he doesn’t think anything at all, because Brett’s lips are on his, insistent and demanding, and Eddy surrenders completely. Let Brett take ownership of his lips, of his mouth, of his body. They’ve always been his, anyway.

Brett pulls Eddy down on the bed with him, then rolls them over, straddles Eddy. There’s a moment of perfect silence, and Eddy looks up and thinks that he should say something, tell Brett what he's feeling. But then Brett’s lips are on his face, on his jaw, on his neck, and he forgets everything. Brett’s teeth graze against his throat, brush against the space where Eddy’s violin usually rests. He sucks and licks at the skin, and Eddy moans softly.

“I like the taste of your skin,” Brett mutters against his neck. His fingers drift across Eddy’s shoulders, over his chest, down his sides.

Eddy can only whimper in response. It’s too fast and it’s too slow at the same time and he can’t talk.

Brett stops, looks down at him. There’s a fire in his eyes. “Do you want to stop?” he asks. “Is this too much?”

Eddy shakes his head, bucks his hips. He feels like he’s burning up inside, and he silently pleads with Brett to do something about it. His heart is pounding against his ribcage like it wants to escape and take residence in Brett’s chest.

They sit up, give each other breathless looks, fumble with kisses and clothes.

“Let me,” Eddy whispers. He pushes the other one against the bed. Explores his skin with his mouth. Brett gasps.

“Just like that,” Brett pants. His hands tighten around Eddy’s hair. He pulls firmly. Eddy feels it tingle all the way down his spine.

“Good boy,” Brett says. He holds Eddy in place with one hand on his hip. His other hand fumbles for something in the drawer. Eddy shivers.

“I love you,” Eddy breathes as Brett sinks into him. He digs his fingers in the other’s back. Brett groans.

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

Eddy feels Brett fall asleep against him, warm skin pressed to his, and he slowly comes to his senses. With each slow breath that Brett takes, Eddy feels his resolve melt. Brett’s face is so peaceful when he sleeps, and Eddy runs his fingers along his cheeks again and again. He wants that peacefulness too. He wants to fall asleep in his lover’s arms, surrender himself to blissful oblivion, and who cares what tomorrow might bring, right? But he’s not stupid. He knows how the future’s going to turn out. There’s not one option where they both get what they want, what they deserve. If he leaves now, then he’ll spare them both the heartache.

* * *

**Hi. Thanks for your time. You know how it goes: take care of yourself and your loved ones.**

**[Beethoven - Les Adieux](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K-ChTHM9B2w) **


	5. Don’t let the water fill your lungs (Sibelius – Symphony n° 6 in D minor, Op. 104)

If Eddy thought that leaving would spare him the heartache, then he was sorely mistaken.

Because it hurts.

It hurts so fucking much.

It hurts more than he ever thought it could possibly hurt.

But maybe it’s different for Brett. Maybe it’s still better for him. Eddy clings onto that thought fiercely, desperately, like it’s a lifejacket and he’s been thrown alone into a rough sea. This is for Brett, so that his dreams can come true. Brett can become a soloist like he’s always wanted to, and Eddy will be happy enough to follow his career from afar.

And yes, Eddy’s heart is broken and it hurts like hell. It’s on his mind day and night. He thought he was fixated before. He was wrong. Now there’s never a moment of peace. It doesn’t go away with time. It doesn’t dull, and it doesn’t pass. 

Because now he knows. He knows what it feels like to be loved by Brett. He knows the touches and the kisses. He knows the words whispered against his skin. He knows and he can’t not think about it. No matter what’s going on in his life, no matter what he’s doing, he thinks about it.

He thinks about it all the time.

He’s lying awake in his bed, and his own fingers brush against his collarbone, searching for the faded mark that Brett left there.

He’s listening to recordings to empty his head, or trying to follow a normal conversation, and it’s Brett whispering in his ear. _…Please, Eddy, stay.._.

He’s working, stocking shelves, losing himself in the routine, and it’s Brett’s fingers running up and down his spine, Brett’s fingers in his hair, guiding him. … _Just like that, yes…_

He places his violin on his shoulder, wedges it against his jaw, ready to play the first movement of Sibelius’ violin concerto, and it’s Brett’s voice in his head. … _I like the taste of your skin…_

He drinks coffee, has breakfast, reads a book, gets hit in the face, cooks dinner, watches TV, walks down the street, and it’s Brett, Brett again, all the time, everywhere. His voice, his touch, his eyes, his words. Whatever he does, wherever he is, it’s Brett. It’s kind of pathetic, really, that Eddy can’t let go of this, can’t force himself to forget. 

It’s driving him mad and he wants it gone. And he doesn’t want it gone. He replays every second of it in his mind and the memory wraps itself around his bones. He digs his fingers into his heart, rummages through his brain for every fragment of Brett that he can find, carves the pain into his chest. He’s making himself suffer and he can’t stop. He can’t stop. He can’t stop, because he doesn’t want to.

He almost gives in, once, in the beginning. He goes to the stupid graduation thing. He dresses up and gets a card and flowers, and he shows up with his heart beating too fast in his chest and a smile ready to falter on his lips. And everyone there is dressed to the nines and there’s family and friends, and they’re all so happy and excited, and Eddy’s heart drops in his chest. And he doesn’t know what he’s doing there. And he leaves. The card ends up slipped under Brett’s front door. The flowers end up in the bin across the street. Eddy ends up with his heart more damaged but his resolve stronger.

Brett’s going to be a soloist someday. And Eddy’s going to hear about it and be happy and proud and no longer broken-hearted, because he will have done the right thing. Yet days pass, and weeks pass, and months pass, and Brett’s still everywhere, every time Eddy does something, thinks something. Days melt into each other and time loses all its consistence, and it never goes away.

To help himself – although is it really helping at this point? – Eddy thinks about the future. Brett’s future. He’s going to move on and thrive – like he thrived at the Con – and Eddy takes reassurance in that. He imagines Brett aboard an aeroplane, off to a foreign country. He’s excited and nervous and only manages to fall asleep with music in his ears. He doesn’t think about Eddy once. He imagines Brett exploring a new city, searching for the best coffees, tasting new foods, exploring the local tourist traps. He sees him stocking the fridge of a new apartment with a month’s worth of bubble teas. He pictures him in orchestra, smart but uncomfortable in his concert attire, smiling at everyone, making new friends. And it makes it a little better, because Brett is happy.

The thing that Eddy doesn’t know, the thing that he only learns about later, is that Brett never hops on a plane to a foreign country, never moves to a new city, never decorates a new place with things that won’t remind him of Eddy. Brett Yang, dumb and stubborn as he is, keeps the same routine as ever, all in the hopes of running into Eddy Chen again one day.

* * *

“It’s a G.”

Kostya’s sitting at the piano, his fingers hovering over the keys. He’s stopped playing the accompaniment part and is now staring at Eddy with sharp eyes. He’s more or less sober, which is a good thing. It’s been a struggle, though, keeping him that way. But Eddy needed a distraction from his own problems. And what better way to do that than to immerse himself in someone else’s problems.

“I know it’s a G,” he answers, tired.

It’s been a harsh couple of months. He doesn’t really sleep. His dreams are too real. He can’t bear them at the moment. _He_ ’s in every single one of them. The lack of sleeping is clearly affecting his playing. Even a non-musician could hear it.

Eddy’s been hoping for a little compassion, but Kostya shows none of it.

“Well, you shouldn’t have played an F sharp, then,” he retorts.

“I’m – ” Eddy shrugs. Gives up. How do you justify yourself? He’s been told countless times that a musician needs to be able to separate his life from his playing. He just doesn’t feel like he has the strength. Maybe he’s not good enough. Maybe he’s not even a musician, after all. Tchaikovsky turned his heartache into symphonies. Eddy Chen’s letting his ruin his tone.

“Your playing is real shit today. It’s been shit for a while. My ten-year-old students play better than that.”

Kostya’s not holding back, as usual. Even when Eddy was a kid, Kostya was sparing of his compliments, never too friendly, never too encouraging. Now that Eddy’s an adult, and that they’re having this simulacra of a lesson that Eddy’s not even paying for anymore, he’s holding nothing back. Nothing’s stopping him from being a dick, and he takes full advantage of it.

“Your ten-year-old students can’t play this piece,” Eddy protests. 

“Neither can you.”

“Fuck. I need a break.”

The teacher scrutinises his face for a long moment. For a second, it seems like worry creases his forehead and etches hard lines on his face. Then it’s gone, and there’s just that harsh, disappointed look left in his eyes.

“You’ve always let the outside world eat you, ever since you were a child. How did you expect to survive in the music world if you let things break you like that?”

Eddy runs a hand through his hair. He’s just exhausted. Exhausted and sad and he doesn’t want to deal with any of this. “Fuck you,” he sighs. “I’m as strong as I need to be. How did your international career go, hey? Recorded anything since 1992? Besides, I was never going to become a professional musician. Wasn’t it you who said that?”

“Not with that attitude, that’s for sure.”

“Drop it, Kostya. I know what you’re doing. Trying to push me by antagonizing me. But it’s not working today.”

The teacher sighs and closes the piano lid. Then he turns to face Eddy. “Fine. Lesson’s over. We’ll start again from here tomorrow.”

“I can’t tomorrow. I don’t have the time,” Eddy protests as he places the violin back in its case.

“Well find it. And before you go, maybe you can tell me why I see Brett Yang standing there like a lost dog for an hour every single Friday.” He gestures towards the street corner visible through the window.

Eddy has to hold his breath and bite the inside of his lip to steady himself. Just hearing Brett’s name still does things to him. But he keeps a straight face and shrugs his shoulders.

“Don’t know. It’s his life. I’m not his mother.” He’s hoping he doesn’t sound too bitter. Or surprised. What the hell _is_ Brett still doing there every Friday?

“I thought you were friends,” Kostya says. He busies himself arranging the sheet music in a pile, ready to abandon the conversation there.

Eddy’s not. So many questions are burning the tip of his tongue. “We _were_. People grow apart,” he forces himself to say, hoping he sounds detached. “Every Friday, you say? Still?” Does he sound too eager? He sure hopes he doesn’t.

“Hmm. So you grew apart… uh… why is it, then, that he was at my door twice during the last two months, each time asking if I know where you live?”

Suddenly, it’s very hot in the room. And it’s very hard to breathe.

“I – uh – what did you tell him?”

“That I didn’t know. Because I don’t. Care to tell me what’s going on between you two?”

“I – yes,” Eddy swallows hard. _Fuck_.

“Do you owe him money?” Kostya asks, eyes narrowing.

Eddy is so surprised that it takes a moment for the question to register. “Money? What? No! No, I don’t owe him any money, why would you even think that?”

Kostya’s eyebrows travel almost up to his hairline. Upon seeing the look on Eddy’s face, he nods. “Okay, okay, I won’t pry. I’d appreciate if you told him to stop bothering me, though.”

“I… We don’t really – we don’t talk… anymore.”

“Shame,” Kostya says, but he nods understandingly. “I suppose, then, that you don’t care that he’s still playing in there,” there’s a new vague gesture towards the window, the outside, “every Friday. From what I’ve heard.”

Eddy can’t quite understand what he’s hearing, because it doesn’t make sense. Brett isn’t supposed to be there. He’s supposed to be abroad, playing with an orchestra somewhere. Happy and accomplished. Not still here playing in a stupid place where no one listens to him and no one appreciates him. Except perhaps Kostya, who’s an avid visitor of the gambling places across town, and who knows Brett’s been playing there for the last three – no, four – months, and who should have told Eddy, because, well… he should… because Eddy should have known, somehow.

“I mean… It’s his life. He can do what he wants. Choose the job he wants.” His voice is strained. There’s no way that’s not telling his teacher everything he needs to know.

“Sure. Who cares if no one’s going to pay him for that job, right? From what I’ve heard.”

* * *

Sometimes Eddy feels anger so deep in his chest that he fears it’ll turn him feral, like a wild animal that’s been caged for too long. It’s not directed at anything in particular, it’s just the world in general that he wants to rage against. Most of the time he keeps it contained. Sometimes life gives him an outlet. That’s when he does most of the stupid things he does.

Like confronting a man that’s twice his age and twice his size, and demand that Brett be paid for his work.

And that’s pretty dumb. If he’d gone and talked and asked nicely, he could probably have sorted the whole thing in fifteen minutes. Because truth is that Eddy’s better with his words than his fists. And he can only hold his own in a fight if he has the element of surprise. And nothing’s ever, _ever_ , been resolved by barging into someone’s office and starting to shout insanities at them.

And that’s pretty dumb, because Brett can make his own way in life, can stand his own without Eddy needing to intervene. And, yeah, Eddy pretty much chose to cut Brett out of his life, be it for his own good, and that pretty much deprives him of the right to play the role of the knight in shining armour from then on.

But, well… Eddy’s sad and angry and he needs an outlet.

Anyway, there’s only so much explanations of “ _he doesn’t ask to be paid_ ” and _“If he wants money he should just ask”_ that one can take before dealing with the interruption in a slightly more efficient way. So the owner of the establishment clicks his fingers and Eddy gets dragged out of the room, kicking and screaming and trying to do as much damage as he can.

And as he’s about to be kicked outside, there’s a commotion somewhere in the room backstage.

And then silence.

And then a familiar voice.

“Eddy?”

_Ah._

_Fuck._

Five minutes later they’re both kicked onto the street and Eddy’s bleeding onto Brett’s shirt and… yeah… that’s not good _._

Brett’s face is closed and tensed and his jaw’s clenched like when he has to play a very difficult passage on the violin. Except that it’s not a difficult passage on the violin this time, but a difficult passage in life. He probably doesn’t want to see Eddy, let alone talk to him. It’s awkward and Eddy doesn’t know what to do or say. He wipes the blood off his nose with the back of his hand. He’s afraid to even look at Brett.

He wonders, though… He knew what day it was, right? He knew there was a chance. So he wonders, did he subconsciously do the whole thing just to get a chance to see Brett again? Did he shout and scream just to get his attention? Because that would have been very dumb.

“So,” Brett begins, and Eddy’s forced out of his thoughts. “Care to explain what that was?”

It’s painful to Eddy’s ears how controlled Brett’s voice is, like he’s making an extra effort not to betray any feeling.

“I…” he begins, tentatively. He’s looking at the ground and doesn’t dare to look up.

Apparently, Brett’s question was a rhetorical one, because he doesn’t give Eddy the time to explain. Not that he could, though.

“So that’s what you do, now,” Brett says. His voice is a little harsh around the edges and Eddy finds that he tries to make himself as small as possible when he hears it. “You go around picking fights with people.”

“He wasn’t going to pay you,” Eddy protests, his voice rising higher than it normally would.

Brett remains calm. Just shrugs his shoulders.

“I know.”

Eddy looks up, at last. “Why did you continue playing, then?” he gets a little angry. He’s still heated from the incident inside, and he doesn’t understand the turn that the present conversation is taking. “And please, don’t give me that bullshit excuse of exposure.”

Brett scoffs. “Of course I wasn’t doing it for the exposure. What kind of exposure could I even get from a place like that?”

“Then why? Why were you wasting your time there?”

Brett’s eyes grow wide, and there’s a long silence. Then he literally explodes. Eddy’s never, ever, seen Brett get angry. It’s terrifying. There’s so much rightful fury that Eddy feels like Brett’s grown a few inches and he’s towering above him again, like when they were kids.

“It was for you. I was doing it for you, you moron!” Brett spits the words like he’s been holding them in for far too long. “You wouldn’t answer my calls. You blocked me. You fucking blocked me! Who does that? Who does that to their – to their – You’ve moved house. I didn’t know where you lived. I didn’t know where to find you.” When he finishes, he’s heaving and trembling.

“Ah,” is all that Eddy can say.

“Yeah.” Brett looks at Eddy, then at himself, and his voice softens a little. “You better let me borrow a shirt. I’m not going home covered in your blood. My mum’s going to freak out if she sees this.”

They walk back to Eddy’s place, and no one speaks. There’s silence when Eddy fumbles with his keys, like he’s suddenly forgotten how to use them to open the front door. There’s silence when they both take off their shoes in the entrance. There’s silence when Eddy leaves Brett in the living room and goes to his bedroom to look for a clean shirt. Somehow, this hurts even more than before, seeing Brett again. Because the Brett that he was missing, the one he was imagining in his head, was always happy. The real one simply isn’t. He’s wasting away here and if it’s only because of Eddy… if it’s only because of him, then … fuck… then he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He comes back with a clean shirt, his nicest one, the one he likes the most, and hands it to Brett without a word. He’s still a little scared to look him in the eye.

“Thanks,” Brett says, and the coldness in his voice stings Eddy’s heart. He takes off his shirt to put the new one on. Eddy pointedly looks away.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before, at this point,” Brett says. There’s still traces of anger in his voice.

Eddy doesn’t know what to answer. He picks up the discarded shirt from the floor, the one with his blood on it, and holds it to his chest. He feels pathetic doing it. He kind of wants to cry.

Brett’s still looking at him, holding him under an icy stare. Eddy can’t look at Brett, and Brett can’t seem to look away from Eddy, and it would be funny, really, if it wasn’t so tragic. Eddy feels the accusation in every second of the stare, and he knows now, _he knows_ , that he’s hurt Brett. That he’s hurt him as much as he hurt himself. But what can he do now, hey? He thought he was doing the right thing. He really thought he was doing the right thing.

“Let me see,” Brett says, voice softer, gesturing towards Eddy’s face.

“It’s fine. Nothing’s broken.”

“Let me see, you motherfucker.” 

Eddy sinks down on a chair, lets Brett have his way. There’s no fight left in him at all. He’s still cradling Brett’s shirt against his chest and it’s weird, right, that he feels like he won’t be able to hold back the tears if Brett takes back his shirt?

Brett goes to the bathroom, somehow manages to find a towel, and comes back to attempt to clean Eddy’s face with it. His gestures are soft and careful, and Eddy wants to tell him that there’s no need to be so delicate with him, that he’s known much worse, but he’s too afraid to break the fragile peace in the apartment, so he says nothing.

“It was the first time I had someone leave me when I was asleep,” Brett says softly after a moment. “Kind of a dick move.”

Eddy’s heart catches in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he manages to say.

“You better be.” Then, after some time, very softly: “Was it my fault?”

The question catches Eddy off guard. How can Brett think that anything in this godawful mess is his fault? No. This is all Eddy. The whole disaster that this has turned into is Eddy’s fault. He fucked up once because he couldn’t control his stupid heart, and now he’s fucking things up again because he was too weak to stay away.

“What do you mean?”

Brett sighs. “Like, did I take it too far? Did I do something wrong? Was I – was I too insistent? Too controlling?”

“What? No. No, I,” Eddy takes a deep breath, bares himself, “I meant everything I said. Every word.”

He hears Brett inhale sharply next to him, then there’s a silence, like he’s contemplating something. Eddy keeps waiting for Brett to say something, but he doesn’t. The silence stretches on and it’s getting later and later. Neither of them speak. After the longest time, Brett starts petting Eddy’s foot with his own.

“I missed you. So much.”

* * *

They go to sleep in Eddy’s bed. It’s way too late for Brett to go home at this hour, and Eddy wouldn’t let him, anyway. Eddy offers Brett the bed, offers to take the couch. Brett refuses. So they both lie down at opposite ends, leaving an ocean of sheets between them. Eddy’s so close to the edge of the bed that he knows that if he makes even the tiniest of move, he’ll fall down to the floor. The air around them is still weird and kind of heavy.

Eddy still moves his hand. Sneakily. Or so he thinks. He brushes against Brett’s hand under the sheets, like it’s an innocent gesture, like it’s something accidental. Like he hasn’t been planning it since they settled in bed. Brett’s skin is soft and smooth just like Eddy remembers, and he tries to hold back a contented sigh. But then Brett moves his hand as well, and suddenly their fingers are entwined. Eddy holds his breath like he’s been found out.

“Sometimes, you’re so dumb, Eddy,” Brett sighs. “Come here.”

And he pulls at his hand and drags Eddy towards him. Eddy ends up curled against Brett’s side and he freezes and tenses and he doesn’t dare to move. But Brett’s not done with him, and he pushes and pulls until Eddy’s head is on his chest, forehead pressed against Brett’s neck, just so that Brett’s lips can brush against the top of his head as he speaks.

“Is this okay?”

Eddy’s petrified and unable to relax. He doesn’t know what they’re doing, what is alright and what is not. He can’t calm down, not even when Brett’s hand comes in his hair, petting him, soothing him.

“Am I doing this alright? Am I too – too insistent again?”

Brett’s voice is soft and small, and it takes Eddy ages to relax in his embrace. But it’s Brett. His skin under Eddy and his fingers in his hair and his voice in his ear, and slowly, slowly, Eddy lets go. The heaviness leaves his chest and the fear that tightened his lungs evaporates under light touches.

“No,” he answers eventually, “this is perfect.” It’s almost an afterthought when he adds, very softly, “I like when you tell me what to do.”

“I know.”

Eddy hides his burning cheeks in the crook of Brett’s neck.

It’s easier to be honest in the dark, so Eddy takes a deep breath and says it. “I wanted to stay.”

Brett’s fingers softly brush against his face, tracing lines across his skin – cheeks, then jaw, then chin, and back up. He keeps petting Eddy, carefully, tentatively, like he would do with a scared puppy. He runs his hand down his back, brushes hair out of his eyes, caressing, soothing, and a sob tears through Eddy’s chest before he can do anything to stop it.

“I wanted to stay.” His airwaves are working all wrong and there’s no oxygen coming to his lungs. “It was better if I – if I – I wanted – I”

Brett’s hand is still in his hair, soft, gentle, soothing. He pulls slightly, forcing Eddy to look up.

“I know,” he says, “I know.” He slips two fingers under Eddy’s chin, holding it in place. “I’m here now, it’s alright.”

In the half-light coming from the window, Eddy can see the ghost of a smile on Brett’s lips. They’re so close, close enough for a kiss. But Brett’s not moving. He’s a breath away from Eddy but he doesn’t initiate anything. So Eddy does. It lasts a second. Not enough to taste or savour. Just a brush of skin. But it’s enough for all the tension to leave Eddy’s limbs until he’s left soft and pliant against Brett. Brett who hums lightly and repeats the action.

It’s just a second, lips brushing and then separating. It’s short and sweet and lazy, and it happens again and again, until Brett pushes Eddy’s face away a little.

“You need to sleep now, you’re exhausted. We’ll need to talk, tomorrow.”

And it’s true, Eddy’s eyelids are heavy. There’s lead in his veins, pulling him down to the mattress. After weeks of fighting against sleep, his body’s ready to give in. His eyes close of their own accord, and it’s so good, this darkness, this surrender. Less than a minute later, though, he feels Brett’s lips, searching for his in the dark.

“Ah, sorry,” Brett says, a little breathless, “I just wanted to – well – good night, Eddy.”

And that’s how he falls asleep.

* * *

When Eddy wakes up, he’s alone in bed, and, well, fair enough.

* * *

He finds Brett in the kitchen, looking at the fridge and the cupboards with desperation etched across his face.

“There’s nothing for breakfast.” He sounds genuinely upset.

Eddy starts the coffee, grabs the cereals from the top shelf and sets them in front of Brett.

“There’s cereals.” A pause. “I thought you were gone.”

Brett smirks. “Taste of your own medicine,” he says. Then he balls his hands in Eddy’s shirt and yanks him forward. Eddy thinks that Brett’s going to kiss him, but he doesn’t. He hugs him like he needs something to anchor himself. It’s weird and reassuring, like they’ve weathered the storm, and there’s a strange haziness in Eddy’s thoughts.

“We’ve got to talk,” Brett says eventually.

“I’ve got to go to work,” Eddy says. He really doesn’t want to.

“Ah. Yes.” Brett’s nose scrunches up as he thinks. “Guess I’ll practice, then. Maybe – maybe I could go grocery shopping, you know. Get some take away. We can talk tonight?” There’s a hopeful note in his voice.

“Here,” Eddy reaches for the spare key above the fridge and places it in front of Brett. He doesn’t know how to react to everything that’s happened in the last 24 hours.

The haziness doesn’t leave Eddy’s thoughts throughout the day. He feels like he’s walking around in a world that’s slightly different. There’s cotton padding all around him, like clouds under his feet, and it’s hard to find his bearings again. Everything’s softened and muffled like it’s covered in snow.

The weird feeling doesn’t go away, even when he comes home and see the stack of bags on the kitchen table and stares with wide eyes like his brain can’t compute. Then there’s Brett, a little breathless, with a manic expression on his face. He’s pulling tins and cans out of the bags and arranging and rearranging them in the cupboards. He’s hyper, moving around the kitchen, bouncing against the furniture, against the appliances, eyes nervously darting around.

Brett stares at Eddy, shakes his head, pulls out a string of weird fruits, one after the other, out of one of the bags. Eddy doesn’t know how to react. Brett doesn’t even eat fruit. He watches as Brett continues to extract the weirdest things out of the bags, stuff that Eddy’s never seen in his life, stuff that he’s never going to need. His eyes widen even more. Brett’s bought himself a toothbrush, bought other things that he refuses to show Eddy, hides them in the bedroom. He looks ready to fight Eddy if he tries to even just look at what’s in the bags. Eddy’s helpless, doesn’t know how to stop the madness.

“You’ve lost your mind, dude,” he whispers, “like, what’s going on?”

Brett stops, deflates. Stares at the table and the cupboards. “I panicked, okay,” he says defensively.

Eddy lets Brett have his panic moment, watches him move stuff in the kitchen from one place to the other and then back. Then at some point he gets sick of it, grabs the other by the wrist and pulls him to the couch with the take away for that evening.

They eat in silence. Eddy would like to talk, but Brett’s still in that weird funk, he can see it.

“Yesterday,” Brett begins tentatively. He’s looking at his fingertips, scratching at his nails. “You said, you said you meant everything you’d said, when we – you know.” He looks up at Eddy over his glasses, then back at his nails. “Did you?”

It takes a moment before Eddy can pinpoint what exactly Brett is talking about. Then… “Oh.” So this is what all of this about? He breathes in, relieved. This is easy. This is a problem that he knows how to fix.

“You mean, when I said that I loved you?”

Brett’s back to looking at him over his glasses, serious. “Yeah…”

Eddy shrugs. Smiles. “Dude. I’ve been in love with you since I was sixteen.”

Brett frowns. “You never said.” He pauses to think for a moment, then turns to face Eddy properly. “Why then,” he asks, “why did you leave?”

Again, the answer is easy. “Because you were going to be a soloist. You were going to travel the world. And I…” he gestures towards the apartment, “this is me, that’s all there is.”

There’s a bitter note when Brett laughs, but it disappears as he looks at Eddy. He takes his face in both hands, runs his thumbs on his cheekbones. “God. You’re so pretty,” he says, then, “I’m never going to be a soloist. I’m nowhere near good enough for that.”

Eddy feels supremely offended at that. “You could be. With practice.”

“That’s the thing, though,” Brett says quietly, “it would’ve required too great a sacrifice. No matter what I wanted, there were some things that I wasn’t ready to give up in exchange, some things that I’m still not ready to give up in exchange.”

Eddy’s silent for a moment after that. “What about orchestras?” he asks eventually.

“What about them?” Brett asks in response.

“You’re not going to join an orchestra?”

“Most of the auditions haven’t started yet. My turn. Will you tell me about the bruises?”

Eddy inhales sharply, closes his eyes, exhales. “Not now.”

“But someday?”

“Someday.”

“Good. I’ll wait. Other question. Is this okay?”

Brett’s breath is on his face, his teeth graze at Eddy’s lower lip. Eddy’s voice is a little shaky when he answers. “Yeah.”

His eyes are still closed when he’s pulled into the other’s lap, and he feels the warmth of Brett’s mouth under his. It’s slow and careful, until it isn’t anymore, until there’s a want that ripples through his chest and a heat that pools down from his stomach, until his body is shaking from the effort of staying still. Brett’s left hand is in his hair, pulling. The other one travels down slowly, so slowly, and then it’s freeing him, brushing, stroking, thumb dragging across skin, wrist twisting, following a rhythm that’s only his. Eddy’s mouth hangs open, he grasps at lips in desperate kisses and the heat builds and builds and builds inside him until something snaps and he falls limp against Brett, every muscle suddenly going soft.

He’s left chasing after air against Brett’s neck, chest heaving, eyes trying to focus on that mole that he’s always wanted to kiss.

In his ear, Brett laughs lightly. “Guess I’ll need to borrow another shirt...”

He steadies Eddy with an arm around his waist and whispers, serious again. “One day you’ll tell me all your secrets. And then I’ll fix everything.”

* * *

Brett leaves the next morning, but comes back the day after because he’s still got the key and Eddy doesn’t mind anyway. He’s got a stack of paper under his arm and a look like he means business on his face.

“Hi,” he says, and heads straight to a blank wall, where he starts pinning a list, and a number of sheets that looks like calendar pages. There are crosses and circles and highlighted things. It’s a complex system and it makes no sense in Eddy’s eye.

“What is it?” he asks, curious and maybe a little bit worried, too. He’s not forgotten about Brett stocking his kitchen with shit he doesn’t need.

“Auditions,” Brett answers, serious. “Philharmonics, chamber music, quintets, quartets, you name it.” He nods to himself. “Sure, most of them are a long shot, but I’ll be damned if we aren’t going to at least try.”

“We?”

“Yeah.” Brett waves his hand in the air. “I know, I know what you’re going to say about degrees and shit, but let me worry about that. I needed a practice buddy anyway.”

“You’re crazy,” Eddy says, but there’s a light in Brett’s eye that reminds him of something, and he doesn’t protest more.

* * *

Brett never gives back the spare key.

The practice schedule stays on the wall and Brett reappears periodically. Sometimes they practice for five hours straight. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes Brett doesn’t stay. He just storms in and pushes Eddy down the couch, bites his lip, kisses him roughly, hungrily, sneaks his hand down Eddy’s pants, slow and steady until Eddy sees stars, and then he’s gone again, just as sudden as he appeared. Sometimes he stays longer, stays the night, stays the weekend, holds Eddy in his arms like he’s afraid to lose him. Sometimes he brings items from his house: books, or clothes, or food. Sometimes it’s weird stuff he’s just bought like a pan or a shoe rack or a new cushion for the couch.

There’s a space for Brett’s music stand next to Eddy’s now, and it’s Brett’s favourite food in the fridge and there’s a thought that starts growing in the back of Eddy’s mind. He tries to push it down, tries to not think about it. Keep the possible disappointment at bay. But Brett’s new toothbrush is next to his in the bathroom, and his shoes have their designated place near the front door, and soon there’s more of Brett’s shirts than Eddy’s in the wash, and the thought gets clearer and louder, until it’s screaming with hope and dread in Eddy’s head.

_Is Brett sneakily, gradually, moving in with him?_

* * *

**Hi. Thank you so much for taking the time for this, I can’t stress enough how much I appreciate. I hope everything’s well. Please take care.**

**[Sibelius 6](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JktQvDvlXIM) (is so, so nice).**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun(?) fact : there’s no piece that goes with the next chapter, because yours truly is apparently too stupid to know that between 5 and 7, there’s 6. But it’s fine, I’ll use my favourite viola concerto. Yes. Viola. There. I said it.


	6. Head above Water (Martinů – Rhaspody concerto for viola and orchestra)

For what feels to Eddy like the hundredth time in a day, Brett restarts his extract of Strauss’ Don Juan. He’s been rehearsing it for an audition, and every time he gets to the middle of it, something feels wrong, often just the most minuscule of details, and he starts the piece again with a frustrated sigh. So far, Eddy doesn’t think he’s heard him get to the end yet.

“You need to chill, bro,” he says, and from his place on the couch where he’s wrapped in a blanket that Brett brought back from his house a couple of days ago, Eddy extends a leg and uses his foot to poke Brett behind the knee.

“Dude,” Brett sighs, half-amused, half-annoyed. “I’m trying to practice here.”

“Then practice,” Eddy says, and he repeats the motion.

From the slight shrug of his shoulders and the shake of his head, Eddy can tell that Brett’s rolling his eyes at him. He’s seen him do it playfully enough times to recognise the motion. Besides, Brett’s with him practically every day now, so he’s more than used to the man’s expressions.

He watches Brett roll his shoulders a few times, and then restart the piece again. Even without seeing his face, Eddy feels the concentration and focus coming out of him. For some reason, the fact that he can tell that makes him giddy. The simple fact that Brett’s here, rehearsing his piece, and that he lets Eddy listen in, makes Eddy incredibly happy. He would never have dreamed about this just a few months ago, and yet it’s happening now. He grins widely, and then, with a badly repressed chuckle, pokes Brett with his foot again.

Brett groans. “I can’t get this right, and you’re not helping.” He’s not really annoyed, but he’s still too tense to play properly.

“I am helping,” Eddy retorts, faking an offended tone. “This is a workout, mate.”

Brett huffs.

“It _is_ a workout,” Eddy insists. He untangles himself from the blanket, throws it back, and gets out of the couch. “You never know what could distract you during your audition.”

Brett’s having none of it.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah… You just want my attention, admit it.”

It’s partly true. But if there’s anything wrong with wanting Brett’s undivided attention, well, then… It’s partly true, but Eddy’s not entirely selfish. Every time Brett restarts the piece, he gets a little bit tenser, and a little bit more frustrated. It’s easy to see that he needs to relax if he wants to get somewhere with it. And Eddy thinks he can help with that.

“Nah, I’m serious. Imagine you’re at your audition, in front of the panel,” Eddy gestures vaguely towards the empty apartment, “and you start playing your piece…”

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Brett looking at him. He’s clearly not convinced. Eddy can tell by the way his eyebrows travel up and his lips almost disappear into a thin line. Still, he persists.

“You’re playing your piece,” Eddy insists, nodding his head encouragingly.

Brett shakes his head and rolls his eyes at him again, but he starts playing. He gets through the first few bars without anything happening, and gains in confidence. Eddy lets him get to the point where he usually restarts the piece before he speaks again.

“Not bad,” he says, appreciating the music, “but remember, this is your audition. You can’t get distracted, and you can’t restart your piece. Gotta get to the end.” He’s trying to keep it together, but he can’t hold back a wicked grin.

With a smile, Eddy traces the outer shell of Brett’s ear with his finger. Slowly. Very slowly. Brett’s mouth curls up a little and his neck tenses, but he keeps playing, albeit with an annoyed groan.

“It’s not me. There’s a fly in the room,” Eddy defends himself. His shoulders are shuddering because he’s trying so hard to stop himself from chuckling. He grins like the idiot that he feels he is. “Draft in the room,” Eddy announces, and he blows on Brett’s neck. At this point, he’s wheezing and barely holding it together.

Brett flinches, and his bow skids.

“You lost!” Eddy exclaims, laughing like a madman. It takes all his energy to stop himself from having a celebratory dance.

“Nah. Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah,” Brett protests. “I see how this game is played, now. Let’s see how you do it, then, mister.”

“I have no audition to practice for,” Eddy counters. He’s had his victory, and he’s not about to let Brett take it away from him. Besides, it’s true. It turns out that orchestras are rather reluctant to audition you if you don’t have a formal musical education. No music degree, no audition. Which is fine. Despite Brett’s grand plans, Eddy never really expected anything else.

Brett’s adamant, though. So despite Eddy’s objection, ten seconds later he’s stood in the middle of the room with his violin, and Brett’s attacking him with a pillow. How exactly this is something that could realistically happen during an audition, Eddy doesn’t know. He tries to protest, but Brett just cackles, relentless. He grabs at Eddy’s bow and shouts “Right hand cramp!” Eddy frowns and bites the inside of his cheek. Brett’s playing dirty, but he’s not about to be beaten. Eddy made up this game, and he’s damned well intent on winning it. 

There’s a wicked grin on Brett’s face. Eddy barely just has the time to see it and register that it means danger before Brett’s back at it again.

“Oh no, your clothes tickle,” he whispers dramatically but with a victorious smirk, and then he jabs at Eddy’s left side.

Eddy hardly has time to feel it before he’s on the floor with a scream, cradling his violin against his chest.

“Why did you scream?” Brett asks in between fits of laughter as he takes Eddy’s violin from his hands and places it on the table. “I barely even touched you.”

“Tickles,” Eddy whimpers with tears in his eyes. “It tickles.”

Once he’s sure that Eddy’s violin is safe, Brett comes down to the ground and flops on top of Eddy. He brings his hands up to Eddy’s chest and presses into him with the full weight of his body.

“I won,” Brett says as he nuzzles against Eddy’s cheek, who’s still trying hard to steady his breathing.

“You always do.”

* * *

“Stay with me,” Brett mutters, half-asleep, his fingers digging into Eddy’s skin, as if he were trying to prevent him from walking out on him again.

* * *

They’re in the middle of practice when Eddy’s phone goes off. He tries to ignore it, but the buzzing doesn’t stop, messages coming in with the precision of a metronome. Brett casts him a quizzical glance. From the way his eyes widen and his eyebrows lift, Eddy understands Brett’s unspoken question. What’s going on?

He sighs, slightly exasperated. Brett’s got his first professional rehearsal as a casual in orchestra tomorrow, and Eddy can tell that he’s kind of nervous. Even if Brett denies it. So if practice reassures him, then Eddy’s going to practice with him night and day if he has to. He’d do anything really, so practice isn’t even that big of a sacrifice. But the phone keeps buzzing, and with a frustrated wince, Eddy takes a look.

“Ah, fuck,” he grunts when he reads the messages. He turns towards Brett with an apologetic smile. “I’m going to have to go. Kostya,” he says, as if that is enough of an explanation.

Twenty minutes later, he’s barging into Kostya’s apartment, with Brett following him closely. Eddy’s tried to tell Brett that he could stay home and practice while Eddy took care of the problem. But Brett seems to suffer from some form of abandonment issue lately, because he categorically insists that he will come along. And who’s Eddy to deny him anything, really.

“Sophie! My favourite student.” Eddy plasters a smile on his face as he sees a nine year old girl with pigtails standing on her own by the piano. He looks around for Kostya but there’s no trace of him.

Her face breaks into a smile when she sees him.

“Eddy! Are you going to teach me today?” It’s clear from her voice that she’s hoping for a positive answer. Sophie’s always seemed particularly fond of him. She’s also one of the only student that’s serious about the violin. Most of the other kids are there because their parents force them. Sophie’s only nine years old, but she’s genuinely there to learn.

It’s not the first time that Eddy’s had to replace Kostya for a lesson, although he really did think that those times were behind them. He doesn’t really mind, though. Or rather, he didn’t really mind, before Brett. Now, Brett comes first.

“Sure,” Eddy tells the student with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “I need to talk to your teacher first though. Meanwhile, my man Brett here’s going to help you tune your violin, is this okay?”

He leaves the little girl with Brett, happily chatting away about her violin, and goes in search of Kostya. He finds him in the kitchen, slumped on a chair. He waves away Eddy’s criticism with an annoyed gesture.

“Spare me,” he says.

Eddy rolls his eyes, but bites back a reply. There will be time enough to discuss things when Kostya’s not completely hungover. Right now, Kostya’s not the most important thing. There’s a kid here whose parents have paid for a music lesson, and Eddy’s damn well going to make sure that she gets a music lesson.

He gets a bottle of water and pushes Kostya to his bedroom with the express order to sleep the hangover off.

“Is that Brett Yang that I hear?” Kostya asks as he stops at the door. Eddy looks at him, on edge. But Kostya pats him on the shoulder and smiles. “Well done.” Then he disappears to nurse his hangover in the dark of his bedroom before Eddy has time to reply anything. Not that he has anything to reply. Well done him indeed, for not having fucked this up yet.

So he gets back to the music room and sits at the piano, and he takes a look at the piece that Sophie’s working on. Brett encouragingly squeezes his shoulder before excusing himself to the kitchen, arguing that Kostya’s going to need some coffee when he comes to.

“I like Brett,” Sophie says when Brett’s disappeared. “He’s funny.”

“Right?” Eddy genuinely smiles. “I like him too. Do you want to start your piece now? We’ll see what we need to work on.”

He’s hoping that they can start the lesson as soon as possible and make up for all the time that Sophie’s already lost, but she doesn’t seem in the mood to play. She looks more inclined to talk than anything else.

“Eddy?” she asks curiously as she stops with her bow in the air before playing even one note. “Are you and Brett married?”

Eddy almost chokes when he hears that, and only barely manages a strangled “no, why would you ask that?” that sounds anything but convincing.

He hears Brett laugh in the kitchen before he shouts “Not yet”, and it takes Eddy a whole minute to recover from that.

After the lesson ends, Eddy checks that there are no other students that day, while Brett rummages through the shelves and cabinets. Eddy’s not surprised. He’s done the same ages ago, when Kostya wasn’t looking.

“Dude,” Brett says as he emerges holding old photographs and a bunch of papers. “Dude!”

Eddy figures he knows exactly what Brett’s just found out. He’s had the same reaction when he did. So he just says “Yeah, yeah,” while nodding his head understandingly. “Second prize. Makes you wonder what happened, right?” He’s ready to leave it at that and go home, but Brett’s still shaking in head in disbelief as he drops everything on the table.

“Dude,” he says, for the third time in less than a minute. “The Queen Elisabeth? How… just… how?”

“Guess he was good… before, I mean… D’you wanna head out? Maybe we can get some bubble tea on the way home.”

“Yeah, we should go,” Brett agrees, although he’s not moving and doesn’t look like he has the intention to. “D’you know what happened? You think it’s because of the drink? Like, he fucked up his career because of alcohol?”

Eddy sighs and rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. He’s kind of pieced together Kostya’s failed career from drunken confessions, but he’s not sure if it’s his to share or not. Then again… it’s Brett. He doesn’t have it in him to keep anything from Brett anymore. Not now that he’s got him back in his life.

“Nah,” he says very softly. “The drinking’s relatively new. It’s the fall of the Soviet Union that did him in, from what I gathered. He lost his Guarneri. And his wife… or girlfriend… I’m not sure. I can never understand whether she died or she became rich though. It’s like he forgets how to speak English when he’s drunk.”

Brett chuckles nervously, then nods slowly, a thoughtful look on his face. “Good to know,” he says finally. Then he grabs Eddy’s hand. “I didn’t know you were such a good teacher,” he says as he drags Eddy out of the apartment and onto the street.

Eddy shrugs. “I’m alright, I guess. But you don’t have very high standards if you think I’m good.”

“Nah, dude. That kid adored you.” Brett lifts their entwined hands to kiss the back of Eddy’s. “And I have very high standards. The highest.” He pauses before he adds “You should get paid for this.”

* * *

“Never leave me again,” Brett whispers against Eddy’s mouth. His voice is barely audible, but Eddy still hears it, and his chest tightens. 

* * *

Eddy comes home from work, Chinese take-away in hand, and finds Brett sitting on the landing, in front of the closed door. He jokes about Brett forgetting his key. Brett just slips two fingers in his pocket in silence and fishes out the key. He holds it up to Eddy with a wistful look in his eyes.

He’s weirdly calm and subdued, and Eddy’s not used to that. He’s used to Brett growing frantic when he’s nervous. First, this transposed into Brett filling their apartment with all sorts of weird stuff – they’ve never really talked about it, but Brett basically lives there now, so it’s their apartment, right? Nothing strange about that.

Anyway. Brett started by getting a bunch of stuff for the apartment. Lately, the weird stuff’s been replaced by Brett buying a ton of music theory books that he gifts Eddy. It’s strange on so many levels – because Eddy’s studied theory ages ago, when he was thirteen; because there’s nothing in these books that he doesn’t already know; because Brett keeps buying these things without a single explanation. He just comes in with one more of these, and tosses it towards Eddy. “For you,” he says, and he leaves it at that. Like this behaviour isn’t weird as fuck in itself.

Eddy’s way too scared of frantic Brett to say anything about his weird behaviour. Not when he’s spent the last two weeks eating peaches in syrup for breakfast because Brett bought like five jars of the thing only to claim later that he doesn’t like it and that Eddy’s got to eat it all. He’s scared to even think about what he’ll have to do with all the frozen peas in the freezer.

Whenever it happens, Eddy thinks that maybe they should talk about what triggers this shift in behaviour in Brett. But then frantic Brett disappears and he’s replaced by serious Brett, who’s even worse in Eddy’s opinion. Serious Brett has so many questions about music. _So_ many. _Why does Eddy like music? What does music mean to him? If he could have studied music in Uni, would he have done it? Why?_ He makes Eddy repeat his answers as if he’s trying to commit every word to memory. And that too is strange as hell, right? Eddy’s not that familiar with normal relationships, but he’s pretty sure that this isn’t standard boyfriend demeanour.

This incarnation of Brett’s so soft and muted, and it’s weird as well.

“I was waiting for you,” he says very quietly, and Eddy feels supremely unsettled.

Brett barely speaks as Eddy takes the cardboard boxes out of the bags, only answering his questions with half words and short syllables. All that time, Eddy’s painfully aware that one of Brett’s hands is lightly trailing up and down his side while the other traces the bruise under Eddy’s jaw with delicate fingertips. The trail is burning against his skin, and he feels tingles all the way down his spine. His body is clearly on board with Brett’s action. His brain can’t help but think that something’s not quite right.

“Do you love me?”

The question catches Eddy off-guard and his head snaps towards Brett. Brett’s hand stops at Eddy’s waist before retreating. He’s still touching the bruise, though. Still careful. Almost as if he were trying to erase it.

“I mean, it’s kind of obvious, yeah,” Eddy says, when really he should just have said yes and left it at that. But Brett’s kissing at the bruise now, digging his fingers into Eddy’s hip to maintain his balance. Eddy can’t think clearly.

“Hmm,” Brett hums, and Eddy feels the vibrations in his throat. “You never going to leave me again, right?”

“Brett? What’s – ” Eddy struggles to make sense of where the conversation is heading, and it’s not easy. Not when he’s being pushed against the wall, Brett’s mouth still at his neck as he eases one leg between Eddy’s, presses himself against him, sneaks light fingers under Eddy’s shirt.

Eddy hears a keen sound leave his own throat as his body reacts all too enthusiastically. “Brett… Brett, wait…”

Brett’s back at the bruise again. Eddy feels his tongue on his skin and it’s almost too much. “I’m trying to fix everything so you won’t have any reason to leave me,” Brett mumbles, too lost in his own actions to really pay attention to the words leaving his mouth, “but it’s so difficult, Eddy. It’s so difficult.”

All of Eddy’s enthusiasm disappears suddenly, washed away by a cold sweat. He’d succeeded into pushing the unsettling feeling to the back of his head, but it comes back full force, with a vengeance. Eddy was right. Something’s not right with Brett. Something’s bothering him. Probably the same thing that’s had him act weirdly for weeks now. With some effort, he manages to push Brett away, maintaining him at an arm’s distance.

“Is this – is this what this has all been about? You think I’ll leave?” The realization hurts, because Eddy knows exactly where this comes from. Brett wouldn’t be worried about Eddy leaving him, if Eddy hadn’t already done that before.

Brett looks down at the ground. Mutters. “Well, you left once before…” An echo of Eddy’s thoughts.

“So, you’ve been trying to fix everything – fix…” realization dawns. “Fix my life? Is that what you’re trying to do? Is this why you keep buying me this weird shit?”

Brett seems uncomfortable. He squirms, but Eddy keeps his grip on Brett’s shoulders.

“I – Eddy…”

“Dude, no! No, that’s not…” he slides down to the ground, hides his eyes behind the palm of his hand. “Leaving was my mistake. I know I fucked up. But, dude, you don’t have to prove yourself to me.”

They’re both silent for a long time. Finally, Eddy feels Brett carefully pry his hand away from his face.

“I’m sorry?” he whispers. His tone is hesitant.

Eddy shakes his head. “Nah, dude, I’m sorry. Ah, fuck! Bro. You can’t fix my life for me. It’s not your responsibility.”

“I know,” Brett says quietly. His hands frame Eddy’s face, thumbs brushing across skin. “I can still try, though, right?” There’s so much softness in his voice that Eddy melts. “Sorry about the weirdness, hey. It’s just that I want to take care of you. I just don’t know how. I went a bit overboard I think. I’m not used to caring this much. I – I want you to be happy, you know.”

Eddy feels his eyes sting. He blinks rapidly. Captures Brett’s lips in his. Tastes his own tears on his lips.

“I want you to be happy too.”

* * *

“I’ll stay as long as you want me to,” Eddy promises as Brett’s arms close around him, and it’s true, he thinks. 

* * *

The letter for Brett arrives one week later. Well, maybe not one week. Brett hasn’t been home for a while, and one day his mother, exasperated perhaps by the mail that starts to pile up, calls him to come and get it.

He comes back with a stack of envelopes that he opens over diner, wryly commenting to Eddy every time he reads something.

“Uh, ads, interesting.” A wince. “Phone bill, cool. More ads. Always useful. Do you experience hearing loss? Nah, I’m fine, thanks. Do you, Eddy? Cause they’ve got you covered.” He waves an envelope around before opening the next one. “Car insurance, that’s a bother. Hey, a buddy of mine from Uni is getting married.” A glance towards Eddy. “You’ll have to buy a suit.” An appreciative smile. “Nice, can’t wait.”

“Hey! Stop imagining me in a suit.”

“You’d rather I imagine you out of that suit, hey? What’s next? Ah nice, a rejection letter from my first audition. _They_ took their time to answer.”

The last envelope leaves Brett really quiet. Eddy doesn’t pay it much attention first, but the array of emotions on Brett’s face makes him curious. Surprise, first. Then pride. Regret. Determination.

As soon as Brett puts the letter on the pile, Eddy glances at it. It’s an acceptance letter for a fellowship program. One of the best orchestras in the land. Hours away, though. Surprise? Eddy’s not surprised. Brett’s well deserving of the position. Pride? Yeah, that he gets. It’s quite something, hey? But then… Regret? Determination?

Eddy pales. “Don’t you dare,” he breathes. His chest’s doing that thing where it’s tight and it hurts again.

Brett casts him an interrogative glance, eyebrows rising up. “Dare what?”

“You’re going to say no. You’re going to say no, because… because of me?”

“It’s not because of you,” Brett protests. He doesn’t protest the fact that he’s planning on refusing the offer. “I’d have to move. I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“Because. Damn it, Eddy. It’s not your decision.”

“If you don’t take the opportunity, I’m never talking to you again.”

“That’s just childish.” Brett says, shaking his head. Then, after a few seconds: “You wouldn’t, would you?”

Eddy sighs. “No, of course not. But still… Brett, this is the dream. It’s all coming together now. You can’t…”

“People’s dreams change, though –”

“Fine, then it’s me just being selfish. If you don’t go, you’ll regret it. You’re already regretting it. I know you. I don’t want – I don’t want you to resent me for that. I don’t want you to resent me because I’m taking your dreams away from you.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Maybe not now. But a couple of years down the line…” Eddy counters.

He’s interrupted when Brett grabs him by the collar and kisses him forcefully. “Shut up, Eddy. Shut up. If it makes you feel better, I’ll think about it. But it’s my decision, right? Mine.” He bites at Eddy’s lower lip. “Mine,” he repeats, and Eddy’s not quite sure whether he’s talking about the decision or about Eddy himself.

During the day, Eddy tries to push for Brett to accept the opportunity. He actively lobbies for it, imagining a variety of different scenarios to solve the various issues. Everything’ll be alright, he says. They’ll figure something out, maybe.

It’s a lot harder to pretend that at night. It’s not as if he has any viable solution to Brett’s conundrum, and there are countless nights when he wakes up shaking.

At some point, Brett gets tired of this.

He sits up after Eddy’s jolted awake from a nightmare again. “Alright,” he says, face serious. “That’s enough.”

Eddy watches him with apprehension, but Brett pulls him in a sitting position too, so that they are facing each other.

“You know I’m not the best at all the romantic stuff,” Brett says, “so bear with…”

Eddy chuckles. He can’t help it. It’s nervous. “Is this you big declaration?” he jokes, because the atmosphere in the room is thick and heavy and he’d do anything to ease the tension.

“Damn it, Eddy,” Brett grunts. “Why’d you have to ruin it? I had it all in my head. It’s all gone now, of course.”

Eddy chuckles even more. It feels completely out of place, but he still can’t help it. He’s so damn nervous.

“Was it nice, at least?” he asks when he manages to calm himself.

“Yeah, you moron. I was going to tell you that we could get through anything, because of how much – how much I – “ Brett sighs.

“How can you be sure, though? That we’re going to be alright?”

“Because I tried being with other people, you idiot. And it never felt right. But this… Listen… You and I … ”

Brett doesn’t finish his sentence. He takes Eddy’s hand, unfurls the fist, and places his palm on his chest, right above his heart. It’s calm and steady, none of the jumbled mess in Eddy’s chest. He takes a deep breath. Looks at Eddy.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly.

Eddy nods. Brett doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t need to. Eddy understands, somehow. Brett’s eyes are saying it all. _This is my heart_ , they say. _And it’s yours. That won’t change. No matter what._

So yes, they’ll be alright. Come what may, they’ll be alright.

* * *

**[Martinů – Rhaspody concerto for viola and orchestra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LG0Dm-w2j6E) (like, come on, so good). **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Story’s almost over. I pledge to end it before the end of next week. Also it’s eight parts now. Because maths, hey.  
> Anyway. Thanks for reading. Take care. <3


	7. Follow the Tide (Debussy - La Mer)

Sometimes, when they’re lying down, Brett likes to pull Eddy against him, move Eddy’s head so it rests on his chest, safely tucked under Brett’s chin. Eddy half thinks that it has to be a size thing. A way to assume a protective posture that wouldn’t be possible otherwise. Not that Eddy minds. There are moments, like now, when he wants, he needs, to feel protected. And with a limited amount of time left, he’ll take whatever he can get.

“It’s like we owe him, you know,” he says very quietly. “Like a debt, in a way. On top of our actual debt, I mean. I’m not really sure how to - ” Against him, he feels Brett holding in a breath.

It’s hard to talk about these things, and Eddy doesn’t really know to proceed. He’d rather not talk about it. He’d rather not think about it. Keep it abstract. Forget that it happens as long as it’s not happening. But he wants Brett to know. Maybe it’s being selfish. Maybe it’s being in love.

“After my dad died,” Eddy continues after a moment, “everything was kind of complicated.”

He leaves long pauses in between sentences and listens to Brett’s breathing. It’s kind of strained, and he knows that Brett’s making an effort to remain calm, give him enough space to talk. For the hundredth time, Eddy wonders if it is even right to burden Brett with his own problems.

“Sometimes I think that it was like a crash course into adulthood, you know. One moment the only thing you have to worry about is to be a good kid, get good grades, make your parents proud, win competitions,”

He pauses a moment, and there’s a stillness in the air around them. _Where am I going with this,_ Eddy wonders. What good will it do to bring it all in the open? What kind of story is he trying to tell, exactly? Everything is so silent that, if it weren’t from the beating of the heart under his ear, Eddy could almost forget that Brett is still in the room.

“the next moment you realize that there are so many things outside out of your control. My mum was sick. We thought it was luck when her brother stepped in to help. He didn’t even bring up how much money we owed him, in the beginning. He just asked for help in his shop.”

Eddy stops. He feels one of his hands clenching convulsively when he thinks about the helplessness. It’s not even sharing a story now. It’s just powering through until it’s over.

“So you…

“I went. It was normal. My sister was already at university. At first I thought he only had a bit of a temper. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Then it got worse.”

A new pause. Brett’s not even breathing at this point. Eddy remembers Brett cleaning his face with a warm cloth and delicate fingers, once before a gig. There’s not need to go into more details. He doesn’t want to. Doesn’t think he can. Brett knows. He’s seen the damage. He’s not stupid.

“I wish I could…” Brett whispers so low that Eddy can barely hear it.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Eddy says. He wants to think it is. “I just need to pay everything back, and then…”

Slender fingers brush at his cheek, catching what he now realises is a tear. There’s a long silence. Eddy shifts uncomfortably, but Brett’s grip gets stronger and he keeps him in place.

“I wish you’d told me sooner.” Brett’s lips are at his forehead. Then he kisses Eddy’s cheeks, his nose, his closed eyelids. “I wish you’d told me before I decided…” His lips.

“Would it have changed your decision?” Eddy asks as he exhales slowly. Brett’s love is overwhelming sometimes. There’s a part of him that still thinks that he doesn’t deserve it.

“Yes.”

“Then I’m glad I didn’t.”

He sighs. Lets Brett into his mouth. Sometimes kissing feels like drowning. Except he doesn’t want to come up for air.

When they pull apart, he asks “You’re not going to fall in love with some random wind player in orchestra, right?” There’s insecurity dripping from every word and he hates it.

What he really wants to say is ‘if one of these bitches even just looks at you, I’ll punch them’, but he doesn’t. Because jealousy and possessiveness are not a good look on him. Because he doesn’t want to scare Brett into thinking that he’s actually dating a psychopath. It’s strange, because he’s endured the litany of girls and boys that Brett dated before. He remembers listening to their names and thinking that they got to kiss Brett and do other things with him that Eddy could only dream of. And he’s lived through it. It was painful but he got through it. Now he thinks that reliving this would kill him.

Brett laughs lightly at the question. His fingers dance across Eddy’s back. “Just you,” he says. “Only you.”

There’s something comforting in the certainty with which he speaks. Like he really means it. Like he has no doubts about it. Just Eddy. Only Eddy. He wants to believe it’s true.

“When’s your flight?”

“On the 28th.”

It’s in less than a month. Eddy feels a familiar tightening in his chest, but he tries to ignore it. He doesn’t want to think about it. Slowly, carefully, he flips their positions, so that Brett’s hovering above him. He traps him in place with his knees.

“I don’t want to think anymore,” Eddy says.

Brett obliges.

* * *

The letter for Eddy arrives the next morning. It’s strange, and he’s immediately suspicious, because Eddy recognises the logo of the conservatory on the envelope, and he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be receiving a letter from them. He opens it, reads it once, twice, and frowns.

“Uh,” he says. “That’s weird.”

Brett’s on his phone and he doesn’t look up when he replies “What’s weird?” distractedly.

“Yeah, what’s weird, Brett Yang?”

His tone is enough to get Brett to lift his eyes and look up from his phone. There are question marks in his eyes, until he sees the envelope that Eddy’s waving in front of him. His smile morphs into a wince.

“Ah,” he says. His hands goes to the back of his neck and he rubs it uncomfortably. A sign that he has at least an idea of what this is about. And how it came to be addressed to Eddy. “What does it say?” he asks in what he surely thinks is his best innocent voice, but doesn’t fool Eddy in the slightest.

“It’s from the con,” Eddy says, eyes trained on Brett.

“Oh. What do they want?” there’s an edge, a tension in Brett’s voice.

“They’re informing me that they’ve received my application and giving me my audition date. If I pass, I can start as a first year next semester.”

“Ah. That’s good, right?”

“I don’t know, Brett Yang. I find it very weird. Especially considering I didn’t apply for anything.”

“You… didn’t?” Brett fakes surprise.

“Cut the bullshit, Brett. I thought we’d talked about you not needing to fix my life. How did you think that was going to go? Did you think I was going to think that I’d applied to music uni, years after graduating from school, and immediately forgotten it the moment I sent the application?”

Brett seems to hesitate for a moment, like he’s weighing the pros and cons of continuing the charade. After a moment, he sighs. He lifts his hands in surrender.

“In my defence,” he begins, eyeing Eddy carefully, “it was before we had that talk. And I didn’t think further than the application. I was,” he sighs, “I was frustrated because none of the professional orchestras wanted to audition you, and I thought that if you had a music degree they would no longer refuse you. It was kind of an impulsive decision.”

“An impulsive decision to apply in my name.” Eddy’s torn between irritation and disbelief. Brett’s love really _is_ overwhelming sometimes. But he’s also very curious, now that he has the letter in his hands. “How impulsive could it be? I thought you were supposed to fill in an application. How did you even do it?”

Brett’s cheeks are bright red now. He answers very quickly, eyes cast down.

“I kinda asked your sister…”

“You roped my sister into this? I can’t believe this.” Eddy’s genuinely surprised. And maybe a little annoyed. And also, somewhere deep, deep down, a little impressed. But he’s not going to admit that.

“Look man, I know now it was dumb. I wouldn’t do it again.”

Brett seems really sorry about it. Eddy wants to tell him not to worry, that they can just forget the whole thing. But at the same time… At the same time, he’s disappointed that Brett didn’t even discuss this with him. Because they’re supposed to talk about things, right?

“You wouldn’t do it again? You _wouldn’t_ do it again? Dude! You filled in an entire application in my name. Without telling me. Is that even legal?”

Brett’s cringing at this point, but Eddy’s a little too worked up to care. How did Brett even think about that?

“I… I don’t know. Possibly not?” Brett says hesitantly. “I… I’m very sorry. I kind of panicked. Are you going to … denounce me?”

“Denounce you to whom? Obviously not.”

“If that makes you feel better,” Brett says hesitantly, “Every word was yours. I just kind of, simply transcribed it. And then yeah, sure, signed your name. But it was all you…”

It’s then that every piece of the puzzle suddenly slots into place. The frantic behaviour, the weird questions about music school, the books, everything. He remembers all the weird stuff Brett did in the beginning, and it all makes sense now.

“Is this why you kept on asking all this weird stuff about studying music? You were trying to fill in that stupid form?”

Brett nods quietly. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t really-“ he starts, but Eddy doesn’t let him finish.

“You’re fucking crazy, you know –“

“Are you mad at me?”

Eddy shakes his head. “I don’t know, man. I should be. Why did you do this without asking me first?” He asks the question, but he knows the answer. Or part of it, at least. He remembers Brett talking about music school, and he also distinctly remembers telling him ‘it’s too late now, anyway, there’s no chance’.

Brett slumps on his chair, seemingly trying to make himself smaller. “I don’t know,” he answers eventually. “I was just… I was so sick of life being so unfair. I wanted to give you… I don’t know. A chance? I didn’t think. I didn’t know. Just burn the fucking letter. I never should’ve… Please forgive me. Or at least keep in mind that this was months ago. I was still so scared to lose you… I’m really sorry.”

“Did you not think that I couldn’t possibly afford it? Like, what was even the point?”

Brett looks utterly defeated now. As he should be, Eddy thinks.

“I looked up grants and scholarships,” Brett’s voice is really small, as if he’s afraid to let Eddy see the full extent of his research on the subject. “You’d be eligible for some. Then I also thought – nah, forget it. Can we just forget about the whole thing?”

“Fat chance. I want to hear everything. You also thought what? Spit it out.”

“I also thought that if I got a job in orchestra, I could help you pay for it.” He says it very quickly, as if the speed would prevent Eddy from hearing every word. It doesn’t.

Eddy almost chokes, then his shoulders start trembling a little, because he’s trying to hold in a laugh.

“So, _that_ was your plan? You were going to – you were going to _sugar-daddy_ me through university?”

There’s a mortified silence.

“I – when you say it like that…”

“Hell yeah, I’m going to say it like that. I love you, but you’re mad. There are so many flaws in your plan. How did you even get them to consider my application?”

“It turns out that when a former second prize winner of the queen Elisabeth competition writes a letter recommending you, people tend to be rather impressed.”

“Just how many people did you involve in this madness,” Eddy asks, his eyes widening.

“Just your sister and Kostya. He got – he got weirdly enthusiastic about the whole thing, kept pushing for it even once I started to have my doubts and tried to backtrack a bit. Called the head of the classical music department and all. Promised that he’d give a guest lecture about teaching methods during the soviet era.”

Eddy thinks about all of this for a moment. Thinks about Brett calling his sister behind his back to fill in an application to Music University. Imagines Kostya in front of class full of university students, yelling about teachers hitting him on the head with a ruler. And it’s all too much. So he laughs. Full on, joyous laugh, head thrown back and tears in the corner of his eye. He laughs because this is just too dumb and crazy to be taken seriously. He laughs because he’s nervous and surprised. He laughs mostly because he doesn’t know how else to react, honestly.

“You’re all fucking crazy,” he says eventually, wiping tears from his eyes. “The three of you.”

“It’s because we love you,” Brett replies softly.

* * *

It takes a little time to get over the awkwardness, after that. Eddy’s pretty sure that he’s forgiven everything – if there was even something to forgive in the first place. But Brett’s still strangely quiet, most of the time, like a puppy that knows it’s done something wrong. He follows Eddy around, and he’s all gentle touches and soft words, and it’s unnerving in the end, to see Brett walking on eggshells all the time. But at least he seems to have gotten the crazy out of his system. There’s no more frantic buying or weird questioning. But still, they’re a little hesitant around each other, even the way they touch is different, careful, just the tips of their fingers. There’s nothing to really worry about. They probably need a little time to adjust to their new dynamics, find a proper balance.

The thing is, they don’t have that much time. Brett’s accepted the offer, and in a couple of weeks he’ll be flying out. And it’ll be months before they get to see each other again.

So one late afternoon, Eddy throws a pillow in Brett’s face.

“Get dressed, fucker.”

“Uh,” Brett groans, looking at him over his manga. “Am dressed.”

“Nah. Proper dressed. No hoodie. Something nice.”

“Uh?”

“Very eloquent. Get dressed. I’m taking you on a date.”

As it turns out, taking someone on an improvised date, when you have no plan whatsoever, is harder than Eddy thought. His initial plan is to take Brett for a stroll in the park, look at trees and ducks and other romantic shit like that, and then go to a Chinese restaurant for a hot pot. That, in his mind, will make for a pretty decent date. Also, it is nice to eat something else than take away food and Brett’s dreadful cooking, for once.

And it starts alright. Sure, the walk in the park is a little awkward. Do they hold hands or not? What do you talk about on a date when you basically already live together? But then they sit down on a bench, look at the birds, and talk about possible fingerings for the third movement of Sibelius’s violin concerto, and it’s so good. At some point, Brett intertwines their fingers and runs his thumb along the palm of Eddy’s hand, and he legit feels shivers all the way up his spine.

And then Brett, of course, has to ask “Do you count the bubble teas when we were kids as dates?”

“No, why?”

“Nah, I didn’t think either. Then this is our first official date.”

And then Eddy panics. He full on panics as he franticly thinks back to everything that happened since they reconnected and, holy fuck, he realises with a jolt, Brett is right. They spent so much time together that he never realised it. But they’ve never gone on a proper date before. This is the first one. And _fuck…_

What Eddy thought was okay for a casual date certainly isn’t enough for a first date, right? First dates have to be something special. Something out of the ordinary. Not taking your boyfriend for a fricking hot pot, and then back home.

So, the rest of the date goes as follows. Brett enjoys himself hugely. He’s laughing and making jokes, and he teasingly strokes Eddy’s thigh under the table. He’s happier than Eddy’s seen him in days. Meanwhile, Eddy’s frantically thinking about ways to make this date special. Should he have bought flowers? Does Brett even like flowers? Is it weird to give a dude flowers? Chocolates, maybe? Bubble tea? That’s the way to Brett’s heart, right? Is there even a bubble tea shop still open at this hour? Will Brett even want bubble tea after having eaten so much hot pot? Why is it so hard to take the person you love on a date? Should they go out after? Brett likes to party. Maybe Eddy should google a nice place to go dancing after that? Drinking? Should they go drinking? Is it even romantic to get drunk? Why is it so hard? How can Eddy show Brett that he loves him despite the crazy? Why are dates so fucking hard?

He’s still thinking about that when they get out of the restaurant. They walk around for a bit, and their steps lead them in front of the music hall, where they stop.

“Is there something else you want to do?” Eddy asks in last resort, because he can’t figure out what to do next.

Brett shakes his head and shushes him. “Listen,” he says. “It’s Dvorak nine.”

It’s true. When everything is quiet, and if they pay close attention, they faintly hear the last movement of Dvorak’s ninth symphony coming out of the music hall.

“Thanks for this. Best date ever.”

Eddy doesn’t see how this could possibly be the best date ever. Brett’s standards must be pretty low, if he thinks that, and Eddy’s ready to tell him that, but he doesn’t have the time. Brett takes Eddy’s hand, lifts it up, and slowly, slowly kisses his wrist. His lips drag on a little on the skin, and Eddy will be damned if this isn’t the hottest thing he’s seen.

“Brett…”

Brett looks at him, and there’s all the light in the world in those eyes. “I love you. You know that?”

And he knows, sure. But hearing it… hearing it is something else, hey? Especially when Brett’s looking at him with that look in his eyes, like Eddy has just given him the world, like a simple hot pot and a little Dvorak are worth more than all the Strads in the universe.

When they get back home, Brett takes his hand again. He traces the lines of Eddy’s palm with the tips of his fingers, follows the veins up his wrists, a slow caress, like Brett’s tracing a new path on a map.

“You’re mine, right?”

His fingers continue their travel, every touch light and controlled. They reach places that make Eddy’s back arch in anticipation.

“Only mine…”

“I – I…” Eddy stutters. He’s never heard a silence so loud. “Yes. Only yours.”

Nimble fingers now reach Eddy’s collar, undo the first few buttons so that they can follow the path from his shoulder to his collarbone, stop at the little dip in his throat, press a little in the space between his collarbones before following their path up his throat and coming to rest at the place where his jaw meets his neck.

“I – Brett?”

Lips brush against his ear, rest at the side of his neck, down where it connects with his jaw. Eddy fears his entire body will start trembling. He hears every breath Brett takes, feels a foreign heartbeat against his chest. He doesn’t know what to do with his own hands, clumsily grabs at the back of Brett’s shirt.

“Hush. I’m trying to remember, memorize, as much as I can. Make memories to think back to when I'm alone.”

Brett’s fingers are still at his jaw, his lips against his neck. He seems content to stay like this for now, every now and then running tongue and teeth against Eddy’s shoulder. But Eddy’s body is trembling, too warm and tense to stay like that. He’s on edge, like an overtightened bow ready to snap. So he slowly lets go of Brett’s shirt, trails his hands along his sides. They’re shaking when they stop at Brett’s belt.

“Let me give you something else to think back to, then,” he breathes, slowly going down on his knees.

Later, much later, when they’re lying side by side in the dark, Eddy speaks softly.

“You remember those scholarships you looked up? I’d like to learn a little more about that.”

* * *

Eddy would never have thought that he would find himself almost crying in an airport, in a scene that wouldn’t look out of place in a B-rated, made-for-TV movie. It’s all too cliché and not really his style, thank you very much.

And yet…

And yet here he is, fingers tangled into Brett’s hair, face hidden in the crook of his neck, doing his best to hold back tears.

“You have to let go, Eddy,” Brett says softly. “Or I’ll miss my flight.”

“I love you,” Eddy replies, voice choked. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Don’t cry. Please. If you cry, I’ll cry.” There’s a strain in Brett’s voice that tells Eddy that he isn’t lying. 

“I’m not crying, I’m not,” Eddy protest, but he’s just that close. His hands are everywhere on Brett, in his hair, on his face, shoulders, chest, as if he’s trying to memorize even the smallest detail of his body. “I’m going to miss you. So much.”

“I’m going to miss you too. But it won’t be forever. We’ll see each other soon.” Brett says the words as if he’s trying to convince himself almost as much as he’s trying to convince Eddy.

There are tears under Eddy’s fingers as he runs them along Brett’s cheeks.

“You said not to cry,” Eddy says with strangled laugh.

“I said _you_ couldn’t cry. I didn’t say anything about myself.”

It’s almost a relief, to be able to laugh in this situation, and for a moment they forget where they are. Just two idiots laughing and crying at the same time, and sure, some people are looking, but most travellers have seen too many strange things in airports to really pay attention to the couple.

Brett hastily wipes his face. “If you leave me for a violist you meet at the con, I swear I’m flying home just to murder you both”, he says and he only half sounds like he’s joking.

“You’d kill me?” Eddy asks with a wet laugh.

“I’d kill him for sure.”

There’s a long silence between them as they both try to get ready for goodbyes.

“I’d better not tell you about any violists, then,” Eddy eventually says, a poor attempt at a joke.

Brett shrugs his shoulders. “Kostya’ll tell me. I’ve asked him to keep an eye on you,” he says it as if it’s a completely natural thing to do, to ask your former music teacher to keep tabs on your boyfriend for you. “I still can’t believe you’ll be moving into his guest bedroom. That’s… well, that’s insane.”

It’s Eddy’s turn to shrug. “He needs someone to keep an eye on him, keep him sober and all. Can’t have him give guest lectures in universities when he’s drunk out of his mind. Plus, I needed to cut the costs. You know I couldn’t possibly afford the rent anymore. It’s a win-win, really.”

“Only you would describe this as a win-win situation,” Brett muses, shaking his head. “You’ll both be driving each other up the wall.”

Another silence.

“Before I forget,” Brett says, “take this.”

He shoves a piece of paper into Eddy’s hands, who eyes him quizzically.

“It’s my friend Chris’ number. He’s a cellist and his quartet is looking for a new second violin. It won’t be much, but it’s better than nothing. A little bit extra money, and extra practice.”

Eddy doesn’t know what to say, so he simply leans down to kiss him. After a few seconds, he pulls away.

“You really need to go now.”

Brett nods. He keeps looking back all the way. He turns round one last time before he passes security, makes a heart with his fingers, and then he walks on and he’s gone.

Eddy waits a long moment, even after the plane has already taken off, before he turns around. He’s got a lot of work that awaits him. A long day at the shop. Then Kostya’s spare room that looks like a dumpster and needs refreshing. And he has to get ready for orientation week that starts tomorrow. Finally, he guesses he’d better call that Chris guy. He’ll need all the money he can make if he’s going to fly all the way across the country every time he’s got a few days off.

* * *

**[La Mer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SgSNgzA37To) (duh). **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not like this chapter, but asklffhgfjh. this is as good as over. a thousand thanks for the attention. so grateful. have the nicest day. I’ll see you later this week for an epilogue.


	8. Epilogue (Leonard Cohen - Hallelujah)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stop. Go listen to Lang Lang's cover of the song (link at the bottom). You'll cry. And thank me.

Every time Brett starts a rehearsed speech, there’s a slight panic that catches in Eddy’s chest. Not that Brett isn’t a good speaker. But he’s better at spontaneous things. There’s still that desire to perform in him, and it leaves him with the tendency to forget the script and jump into some impromptu riff, often with mixed results.

None of that has gotten better with time. But now he’s finally earned the concertmaster spot in his orchestra. That should come with a little bit of restraint. Or so Eddy thinks, anyway. But maybe he’s just getting old, or it’s the academic in him speaking.

 _“Eddy,”_ Brett starts.

So far, so good.

There are stars in Brett’s eyes, and like every time he looks in them, Eddy’s breath catches in his throat. So many years, and he still can’t get used to that amount of love and devotion.

_It hasn’t always been easy. We’ve spent a long time talking about what we want: what we want for ourselves, what we want for each other. How some of the things we want can change. How sometimes we don’t know what we want._

There it goes.

Eddy inhales sharply. Brett’s fingers blindly find his. He squeezes lightly, reassuring. Eddy relaxes. It’s a bit incoherent, but there’s some truth to Brett’s words. Their desire to please the other has at times conflicted with their own needs.

_I know sometimes it felt like we were practicing in different rooms, only hearing echoes of each other. And sure there were moments when we were like two violists in an orchestra, not really in tune, not really on time._

Eddy represses a chuckle. It comes out as a wheeze. Here comes the viola joke. Brett really can’t stop himself, can he? Eddy turns their hands so he can runs his fingers along Brett’s palms and sees him smile, a little strained perhaps.

_Even then, though, even when I struggled to find a good balance between selfish and selfless, it was you I would turn to, you were the one to keep me grounded._

Eddy knows this. It’ always been like that between them. Push and pull, ebb and flow, soft touches and hard moments. But Brett’s right, they’ve always been searching for each other’s hand in the dark. It’s in the other’s body that they find their peace.

_Anyway life isn’t all about practice and viola jokes. Sometimes you have to jump in the water. Metaphorically speaking. You shouldn’t jump in the water before you’ve checked the temperature. I mean…_

Brett’s starting to go off script, gets lost in his own words. It’s the ‘look at me’ part of his personality. Eddy doesn’t mind. He loves every side of him anyway. His fingers drift up Brett’s hands, settle at his wrists. He runs his thumbs over the sharp bones there.

_Aaaah, shit, what did I want to say again? Oh, yes, jump in the water. I’m sorry it took me a long time to do that. It’s embarrassing, really, that it took nearly losing you, twice, to realise that what I’d always wanted was you._

Eddy smiles. It’s taken a lot, to get them to where they are now. Every goodbye has been a real wrench, every reunion an epiphany. They owe the people in their lives so much. His sister and Kostya, who pushed him through University and further, giving him the means to free himself. His mother, bless her soul, who taught him to never give up, and who was gracious enough to say that a doctorate in music was _almost_ as good as a being a real doctor. Brett’s parents, for Brett himself, and also for offering their son not one, but two fully paid trips to Austria when Eddy did his study year in Vienna.

_What I’m trying to say is this: I told you once that my heart was yours, and that still holds true today. For me, it’ll only ever be you. I really hope you know that. I really hope you know, Eddy, just how much I love you._

Brett finishes with wet eyes, grips on Eddy’s hand just a little too strong to be comfortable, but hey… fair enough. Eddy kind of feels emotional too. And the answer to that last sentence, to every question Brett has ever asked, will ever ask, has never been clearer in his head.

*

“I do.”

*

* * *

[Lang Lang - Hallelujah (Leonard Cohen Tribute).](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xTpS3cn2fU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many, many thanks for reading this. Maybe I can rant at you again in the notes of another story, someday.Until then, be safe, take care. <3

**Author's Note:**

> (this is the same story as Everything, but following Eddy – except it was too long and I had to cut it in seven parts – and it goes further in time)


End file.
